Terms of Endearment
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Doomed to immortality and fed-up with his lot, Erik loses his temper and offs a group of his more annoying phangirls. He finds himself forced to take refuge in the cellar of an unlovely, unworthy Gerry-phanatic. Absolutely no E/OC, for the record.
1. Cursed With Immortality

Okay! After I asked people to vote for either a now-days phic or a Erik/Christine under-the-opera phic, and they did, I went ahead and did what I warned them I was going to do... I ignored them completely. Anyway, here it is. And its alright if some of it doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense to me either.

Chapter One: Cursed With Immortality

The impossible happened.

It wasn't something incredibly, majorly impossible, not something that would affect the course of the universe or anything like that. But it did involve some rather strange circumstances, which I will now proceed to relate to you.

A man named Erik, who's last name is lost to us through the capriciousness of fiction, was cursed. It wasn't your normal sort of curse, the sort of Egypt-y, Pharaoh-y curse, but rather one that, had it been given to most people, would have been looked upon as the most incredible good luck.

Erik was cursed with living forever.

Doomed to immortality.

At first he didn't really mind. He simply shrugged and went on his way. Even then, he was fully cognizant of his stature as one of the greatest fictional characters ever created— he was an intelligent man, not one to deny the truth when it stared him in the face— he had even had an almost fatherly relationship with Gaston Leroux, who called him into being and gave him a name.

He'd had a terrible past, of course, though for the life of him he couldn't remember details. And the events of the recent months had been heart-wrenching, soul-tearing, life-threatening, hellish. He had fallen in love. He had been rejected. He had been hunted down. And now he would never die.

He lived below the Opera house. This detail is well known to pretty much everyone who has ever heard of the Phantom of the Opera. Even those who don't know his name, knew where he lived. It was mostly by the grace of God and Gaston Leroux that the Opera underneath which he resided was also fictional, and had never truly entered reality, as he had— else he would almost certainly have been bombarded by wave after wave of fans and well-wishers.

No, that would come later.

He lived on for some years in the same place, that refuge from reality, until by a startling set of circumstances, involving a book-burning, he was forced to enter, for a time at least, into the world which we inhabit. He thought it was a temporary move. He wasn't entirely correct.

He left the Opera Populaire behind and emerged into England of the late 1950s, into a bookshop, to be precise, where a shipment of new copies of "The Phantom of the Opera," had just arrived. The clerk was surprised to see him climb out of the box, but, being British and not easily swayed, didn't make much of a fuss.

And so Erik went on his way.

He lived in England for another twenty-five years, during which time he finally began to notice that he never seemed to get any older. It was then that he began to worry about this curse of immortality— it seemed to be working. He had never been able to ascertain the full extent to which this curse would continue— he hoped, one day, to find a way to make it abate, and then he could sink down into the blessed oblivion of death, leaving all his troubles far behind—

Meanwhile, he moved to New York.

He found himself with a distinctly troubling lack of funds. For some time he wandered about the homeless on the streets of the great city, when one day, as he passed by a theatre on Broadway which had an poster out for a certain musical, it suddenly struck him that he was famous.

His subsequent rush into the theatre and demanding that the actor playing him be replaced was of course discounted, and nearly landed him in jail. But the actor was a nice, middle-aged Briton who begged the audience to transfer their attention to his understudy, whilst the actor himself took Erik out for a bite to eat. During supper he questioned Erik closely about his past, and afterwards sent him on his way with a few dollars in his pocket— he had purchased Erik's fedora. He said it matched the part.

And the next day someone found Erik and recommended a nice publicist where he could go and get himself some well-deserved fame.

And so the years wound on. Erik found himself quite famous in his own way, giving seminars on the intimate workings of opera, writing music on occasion, showing up at Social Functions, and just generally out-living the daylights out of people. He even had fans, a few refined people who didn't attempt to touch him, only begged him for his autograph, which he always gave— scrawling the four letters of his name with his left hand, using the specially-provided red ink pen. Every once in a while someone would ask him shyly to sign it "O.G." He usually fixed these persons with an inimical stare— if they backed off, which they usually did, he would sign his name— if they stared back, he would accede to their request. It was a sort of game he played to ascertain the strength of people's characters.

And then, after quite some time, tragedy struck.

There had been a filmic version in the works for some time, but Erik's publicist told him not to worry about it, as it would probably never come to fruition. Erik had taken his advice— he didn't worry about it. Erik never went to movies, or to the theatre— he had never, apart from his brief intrusion on the first matinee, even seen the much-discussed musical version. He owned a worn first edition of the original book, but had avoided all subsequent explorations of his character entirely. He was not a star. He was not a celebrity. He was not famous. He was only Erik.

Now, though, things began to change.

It was subtle at first.

There was of course an outrage over the possibility of some Spaniard being cast as the Phantom—

And there was the outrage over the idea of the American ingenue being cast as Christine—

There was a much smaller outrage over the casting of Raoul, because only a very few people actually cared about his part—

There was the usual bickering between studio heads and directors, between directors and writers, between writers and the Originator, who had two last names to his credit, as well as a title, and so lorded it over everyone else, between the Originator and the proposed actors, between the proposed actors and the other proposed actors—

Then, quite suddenly, it was real, and quickly it became a threat to Erik's privacy.

From the moment the final casting was announced, Erik began to feel eyes on him when he walked down the street. Not the eyes he was used to, either— _young_ eyes. _Female_ eyes. Eyes who knew who the main actor was and who were suitably impressed at seeing the real Phantom of the Opera.

Filming progressed, amidst the usual squabbles, and the fangirls became a definite nuisance. They even took on a new spelling for themselves, "phangirls," as though they were a different species from all the other young morons running around chasing after Hugh Jackman. Which, to be perfectly blunt, they were. Erik's phangirls were even more lecherous— Jackman was at least, to some extent, protected by the sanctity of his marriage— Erik had no such commitment.

As time wound on, commitment began to sound very alluring—

Ah well. He could deal with this. It was nothing too major, he could handle himself around a few hundred females. He was the bloody Phantom of the Opera, after all.

Then the film opened, and in one night Erik's world went straight to the fiery depths of Hades.

Now he did not even dare to walk down the street. He didn't dare open the door. They had found out, somehow, where he lived, and they were there, all the time, clustered around his doorstep and around the windows. He invested in heavy curtains. He stocked up on tinned food. He wrapped himself in his cloak and stared with bleary eyes at the television footage of the man who was pretending to be the Phantom, obviously perfectly at ease with the female adoration that surrounded him on all sides—

Erik began to hate that man with a passion.

Tears blurred his vision.

He had spent so long cooped up on his own below the Opera—

Now he was here, in a different world, and yet trapped again—

Trapped he was, and all alone—

Sydney the publicist had to come and break him out. She couldn't have done it, even, except for the all-important fact that he had a seminar to give that afternoon and if he didn't show, it meant the loss of several thousand dollars. So she found couple of policemen and flirted with them enough to make them follow her, then enlisted their help in beating back the crowd of teenaged girls that clogged the entrance to Erik's apartment. A minimal amount of force was used. A few of the girls had bruises to explain when they got home, but they were happy. It was worth it.

As Erik escaped, head ducked low under his hood, one hand over his mask, one of the girls who had clambered onto the shoulders of her friends, launched herself into space, overreaching the arms of the policemen and falling in a lump at Erik's feet. He stared down at her, aghast. She stared up at him in rapture.

"I read the book I saw the movie I'm gonna go see the play I have three copies of the book my dad owns the old movie I have a picture signed by Gerry Butler I hate the girl who played Christine don't you?"

In some consternation he attempted to step over her, but her arm reached out and she caught him by the ankle, toppling him over onto the pavement.

There was a shout from the midst of the crowd.

"Get him _now_, girls!"

They were like animals!

Animals in human form!

Never had he seen anything so awful!

At the same time he was almost turned on, and this above all things made him sick to his stomach. With the assistance of the policemen he finally lurched to his feet and embarked on a stumbling run in the direction of the waiting taxi, the girls chasing after him, cries of joy on their lips.

"Oh he's so tall—"

"He's so handsome—"

"I'd never reject him—"

"Phantom! Come back!"

That was what got to him the most— that they didn't even know his name—

When at last he arrived at the auditorium where he was to speak, he was still disheveled and wide-eyed, despite all Sydney's efforts to put him back together in the taxi. He emerged from the car in a state of shock, his knees threatening to buckle under him. Sydney supported him and shoved a bundle of papers into his right hand.

"I wrote you a new speech," she said, chewing her gum ferociously. "The managers asked for it. You know, after the film and all. I wish you would have said something when it opened. Its been a week, I've got all sorts of people asking what you thought."

"A week?" Erik murmured. "Only a week?" He sighed deeply. "It seems an eternity."

"Yeah." She smacked him on the back. "Out you go, my man. Do me proud."

She shoved him onto the stage. There was an immense roaring sound, like the ocean on a bad day— it took him several minutes to realize that it was the crowd, the audience, and they were applauding him. It had never been like this. Trying to recover, he smoothed his hair back with one hand, the other still clutching the papers—

The podium, where was the podium—

Over there—

He made his way towards it.

The applause didn't stop.

He reached it, gulping, gasping for breath, trying to bring his heart rate down once more. That whole experience with the girls— it had not been good for a man his age—

Girls—

A whole bunch of girls—

A million girls—

Definitely not good for a man his age.

He fought to bring his breathing under control. The audience still hadn't stopped.

He placed the speech on the podium and bent towards the microphone.

"Good evening," he said, his voice sounding more like a breath. The applause only deepened, broadened like a river, flowed straight at him and tried to steal his mind and composure away. He thought he would drown.

"Please," he said, "please stop."

They didn't, and so he took the opportunity to look over the printed pages Sydney had slipped to him.

"Greatly pleased—" he murmured almost silently to himself, reading the words over, "over the portrayal— incredibly accurate— singing voice of such power— the romance between Miss Daae and myself was depicted in a most tasteful manner— good lord." He looked quickly up, glancing towards the wings, where Sydney stood, shrug-ready.

"I never even saw the thing!" he shouted at her. The hall suddenly rang with silence.

Sydney motioned at him. He turned back to the audience, at a loss. There was no way he was about to endorse something he had never even seen, and so he had nothing to say.

Somewhere back in the audience, some female started to clap and say his name.

"_E-rik! E-rik! E-rik! E-rik_!"

To his horror, the pool of bodies around the girl started to join in.

"E-rik! E-rik! E-rik! E-rik!"

At least they had his name right.

The girl three rows from the front looked utterly confused. _Who_, she was probably wondering,_ were they shouting for?_ Determined to vindicate her new-found love, she started her own chant—

"Phan-tom! Phan-tom! Phan-tom! Phan-tom!"

Erik groaned, and then groaned again when this chant was picked up more readily than the first. Apparently the majority of the audience had only seen the movie. They didn't know the real Erik at all.

The chanting grew in intensity until it assaulted Erik's ears and sanity.

"PHAN-_TOM_! PHAN-_TOM_! PHAN-_TOM_! PHAN-_TOM_!"

He gritted his teeth as anger surged through him. It was too much. Far, far too much. First the phangirls outside his apartment, now this—

He looked up. There was no chandelier ready to hand here, an oversight which he much regretted.

There was, however, a giant set of speakers, intended to assist the sound system. They were huge, and probably weighed several hundred pounds at least.

_They_ were calling to him, also.

"_Oh, Erik— Eeeeeeerik_—"

When in need, reasoned the erstwhile Phantom of the Opera, work with what you have.

With a swirl of his cloak he had left the stage, so it stood, utterly empty and bereft of interest.


	2. Surprise

**A/N: Just so you know, Lonny the Phangirl is NOT me. Want to make that perfectly clear. NOT me at all. Thank you. Please review.**

**Chapter Two: Surprise**

Hazel eyes stared, wide in reverie. The object of her affection wavered before her gaze in the dim candlelight. He was so perfect, so nice and neat, and deliciously scruffy at the same time, and above all so bloody unattainable—

She did not believe in dying of a broken heart.

It took her all of two minutes to extract her attention from the man's face and return it to the computer screen on which she had lavished so much of her care and time. The cursor blinked at her impatiently, invitingly—

_Come up with another word yet?_

She sighed.

"Oh, to be a writer with a never-ending supply of words," she murmured to herself, her fingers poised once more over the keyboard. She hesitated, her fingers darted nervously towards the keys, then came back. She set her elbow on the desk and set her chin in her hand and stared with vile eyes at the computer.

Vile eyes.

That was good, she'd have to use that somewhere.

Her parents were going out for the night, supposedly. There was a distant banging above her head. The windows down here in the basement opened directly onto the dirt that would, with the return of spring, become the back lawn. It was dark down here, something she appreciated. She thought better in the dark.

At least, she_ thought_ she thought better in the dark—

_Grr_, she typed. _Can't think of another bleedin' word_.

Her efforts were interrupted by her mother, who came in, dressed to kill, and, also in preparation, slinging a gun over her right shoulder.

"Are you sure you can stay by yourself?"

"Fine, Mom."

"But all that stuff in the papers about that guy being on the loose—"

"What guy?"

"You know, the guy who killed all his fans."

"Huh."

"It was all over the papers. It was horrible. It just happened yesterday."

"Never heard of him," she said absentmindedly, her eyes returning to the computer screen. Her mother sighed.

"Listen, if you would get out more—"

"I'm fine, Mom, I'm an adult, I'll do what I want to, and you're going to be late."

The older woman sighed and adjusted the hang of the rifle's strap. "Your father and I only want what's best for you, Lonny."

"I'm aware of that," Lonny said, gritting her teeth.

Her mother watched her a moment longer, then sighed once more. "Alright. We'll be at the range till nine or so. Then we'll be back. Don't turn the stove on— come up and lock the door behind us— don't let anybody in—"

Eighteen years, thought Lonny, her eyes staring blankly at the screen in disbelief. Eighteen bloody years I've been alive, and they still think I'm a baby.

She sighed herself, and followed her mother up to lock the door as they left. Then she headed towards the open door of the cellar—

A sudden remembrance of what she had seen that morning sent a frisson down her spine and she bounced a little on her toes.

Opening her mouth as wide as she could, she sang out loud—

"DOWN ONCE MORE TO THE DUNGEONS OF MY BLACK DESPAIR— DOWN WE PLUNGE TO THE PRISON OF MY—"

She tripped on the third step and tumbled the rest of the way down, coming to rest on the thinly carpeted floor of the basement, her head struck, her mind dazed, her arm throbbing. Through the haze that filled her mind she saw the window in front of her begin to inch open—

Who was doing the opening she could not tell.

It was just a black shape—

Just a black shape—

A black shape that morphed suddenly into the figure of a tall, stooped, impossibly thin man who had managed to wriggle his way through the window slits and who now stood before her, cloaked in darkness.

Lonny screamed her head off.

The man yelled in surprise.

Lonny kept screaming.

The man said, "Stop!"

Lonny kept screaming.

The man took a step towards her and raised a hand warningly.

Lonny shut up.

He stood there a minute longer, then stepped quickly towards her once more. Reaching down, he captured her arm and hauled her upright. It was still too dark to see his face, but she caught a glimpse of something white.

"You frightened me!" she said angrily. "Did you _see _me fall down the stairs?"

"I am sorry, madam, I did not know there was anyone home." He sounded more sulky than anything. Good, Lonny thought grimly, we match.

"What are you doing here, anyway, sneaking into the basement if you think there's no one home?"

The man's breath came in ragged gasps. "I beg your help, madam," he said. "I— I need your help—"

Lonny realized that he had been having trouble breathing since he arrived— she had been too preoccupied to notice, however. Now, the matter was rather forced on her attention, for the figure suddenly slumped to the ground.

Face-up, the light shone off the luminous white mask that covered his entire face, except for lips and chin. His eyes fluttered wildly, rolled back into his skull, and then closed.

Lonny suddenly realized that the Phantom of the Opera had just broken into her house, and was now passed out on her bedroom floor.

**A/N: Quick question: what would _you_ do if Erik was passed out on your floor?**

**(Evil grin)**

**Yeah. Me too.**


	3. Cereal Killer

Chapter Three: Cereal Killer

With some difficulty she succeeded in dragging him to her bed. He was surprisingly heavy for how— _hollow_ he looked. Appearances were deceiving, Lonny thought grimly. There wasn't a person on earth who would believe she weighed less than a hundred and ten pounds, for instance.

She was strong, though, and finally got the Phantom's inert body onto her bed, which was, thankfully, low. Then she stood back, breathing stertorously, trying to get her breath back to normal.

He was the Phantom.

He was in her bedroom.

Unfortunately, he wasn't _her_ Phantom.

"Just my luck," she mumbled, yanking her desk chair out and sitting on it backwards. "A fictional character stumbles into my bedroom, and he's the wrong version."

Looking at him, she wondered if she should do something about the fact that he wasn't breathing very well. Take the mask off, perhaps—

No.

Lonny had never read any of the book versions of Phantom of the Opera, but she had seen the movie eleven times (it said so on her Internet signature, along with the words "proud" and "Gerryphan" and "PHIG") and she was willing to bet that pulling his mask off at this point would not be a wise move. Especially since he seemed to be waking up.

Erik's eyes fluttered as he gazed at the dimness surrounding him. This was nowhere he'd ever been before— he was lying on a strange bed— the only light in the room came from a flickering computer screen, and it barely illuminated the face of the person who sat watching him—

He sat up at once, gulping down air.

"Where am I?" he demanded.

The girl— for it was, he supposed, female, females seemed to haunt him these days— gave a snort. "Kind of a cliche thing to say," she said, "especially for you, isn't it?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"I mean, couldn't you come up with something more original?"

In one move he was off of the bed and had his hands wrapped around her throat. It wasn't much of a reach.

"Where am I?" he demanded harshly.

"New Jersey," she managed, though his hands were constricting her vocal cords. He released her at once and sat down again, slowly, back on the bed. The girl rubbed her throat and looked decidedly frightened. Too much too soon, Erik thought regretfully. You'd think after all this time, he could have learnt to tone it down a little, take it bit by bit—

"I remember," he said suddenly. "I came here, didn't I?"

She nodded. Her body was tense, her face afraid, but at least she wasn't screaming any more.

"Yes, that's right, I came here— I'm sorry, madam. No— mademoiselle, is it not? I suppose I have frightened you. I did not mean to."

"Bugger that!" she said. "What exactly is choking me meant to do, be taken as a friendly overture?"

He tilted his head and looked at her. "I don't suppose you know who I am."

"I think I do, actually."

He extended one long-fingered hand, inviting her to guess.

"The Phantom," she said. "Like from the movie."

Erik gritted his teeth.

"Not like from the blasted movie!"

She rocked back a little in her seat. "Okay, my mistake. Not like in the movie at all."

"I didn't even see the movie!" Erik raged at her.

"Then how do you know that—"

"Do not argue with me!"

"Okay, gosh, just asking a ques—"

"Do not question me!"

She frowned. "Okay, look, Monsieur le Phantom, is there anything I _am _allowed to do? 'Cause this is kind of my house you're in, my room and all— and you did ask me for help."

He shook himself. "Help— ah yes. Forgive me, my dear, I did not mean help. I meant food. I must have food or I fear I will die— at least, I most certainly would if I wasn't immortal."

The look on her face indicated she would fear for his sanity were it not for the fact that she knew quite well he was already insane.

"I can get you some food." She stood up. "Come on."

She was headed for the stairs. "Must I leave the basement?" Erik inquired hopefully.

"You must leave the basement if you want to eat. I'm not allowed to have food down here, now come on."

As she went up the stairs ahead of him she was uncomfortably aware of his eyes boring into her back.

He was the Phantom.

The Phantom was in her house.

The Phantom was walking up her stairs.

The Phantom had lain, however briefly, on her bed.

_Curse_ her bad luck! He _would _be the wrong one!

Nobody would ever believe this anyway. She concentrated on keeping her own sanity.

"We're just going up the stairs," she whispered to herself, "me and the Phantom, the Phantom and me, we're going up the stairs so I can feed him— I wonder what fictional characters eat?"

"Food," said the voice of Erik behind her.

"Of course," she said as graciously as she could manage.

She led him into the kitchen and gestured towards the table. Erik sat on one of the chairs and leant one of his elbows on the table. Lonny stared at him for a minute, then shook her head.

"Explain, please?" she said as she went to get him— oh, man, _what_? She couldn't cook, not with edible results anyway.

Well, he would have to settle for something not quite fancy—

"I cannot think how to tell you all this," he said, his eyes glued to the table top. It was white, speckled with those little black flecks that you can't tell if they're pepper or fleas. "At least, how to tell you in a way that means you won't be frightened and order me out—"

"Why, does that happen a lot?"

"Five times so far," said Erik, burying his head in his hands. "You read about my little— debacle in the papers, didn't you?"

"No."

"Are you _sure_ you know who I am?"

She came back over, carrying a bowl, milk, cereal, and a spoon. She set them down in front of him and looked at him.

"You're the Phantom. Just— not_ my_ Phantom."

Erik stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, you're the one that got incarnated as a real person, right? The one from the book or something. You live in New York." He nodded, his icy eyes never leaving hers for a moment. "Well, you're just not my favourite version. No offense or anything—"

She couldn't exactly tell if he looked angry, but certainly his mouth and eyes looked anything but pleased.

"I _am_ the real Phantom," he proclaimed. "I am Erik!"

"Yeah, I get that. I never read the book, though, so that doesn't mean a lot to me."

"You never read my book?"

"Its not your book, its whatsisnames. Lerows."

"Leroux."

"Yeah, him."

"But it is my book. It is about me."

"Yeah, but he wrote it."

"But it is _about_ me!"

She stepped back and looked at him and laughed. "You haven't half got an ego, have you? Look, don't strangle me or anything, but what are you doing here and what do you mean five times?"

"Five houses I've gone through, looking for refuge," Erik explained wearily. "Five times I have narrowly escaped being captured by the police. Its all the result of my little— debacle, as I said earlier."

Lonny shrugged. "I don't know what debacle means."

Erik scowled at her. "How old are you child?"

"Eighteen, why?"

He shook his head. "Further proof of the ineffectuality of the public school system, if we needed any."

"I do home school," she offered.

"A debacle. A fiasco. A blow-up. An accident."

"What did you do?"

"I dropped a few speakers on the heads of five hundred people."

"Wow," she said, and reflected for a moment. "They must have been pretty big speakers."

"Yes," he agreed, "reasonably good-sized." He watched her warily. "Are you going to phone for the police now?"

She tipped her head to one side. "Haven't decided yet. I mean, if you were the Gerard Butler version, there'd be no question."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you'd be locked up in my room right now, tied to my bed." She gave a sharp-edged grin that Erik did not return.

"I have no patience with the forwardness of modern girls," he said gloomily. "Even if you think its humorous, which apparently you do. Take my word. It isn't."

She shrugged once again. "My name is Lonny. You'd have to stay in my room in the basement and avoid my parents. Take it or leave it."

He hesitated, then took her hand as she offered it across the table.

"Done."

"Done," she repeated, gave another, softer smile, and waited for him to notice that all she had given him to eat was cereal.

It didn't take long.


	4. Floaty Bits

**A/N: (on titling the chapter, with satisfaction) There, that should fox 'em.**

**A/A/N: The typos in the pretend phics are all intended. Please don't call me up on my bad spelling! Give me a little credit! Thank you!**

**Chapter Four: Floaty Bits**

Only someone without any sense of humour would have been able to watch the famed Phantom of the Opera eat breakfast cereal, which he obviously highly disapproved of, without grinning.

Erik glanced up at Lonny. "Kindly remove that ridiculous smirk off your face, child. You are beginning to get on my nerves."

"Hey, how did you keep your food cold in the basement anyway? I mean milk, and stuff like that."

He sighed and frowned and glared at her. "You have quite a talent for absurd trivialities, do you know that?"

"Oh, I like long words, they sound so grand, what does it mean?" She had her head tipped to one side and was batting her eyelashes at him. Erik was sharp enough to catch on that she was being heavily sarcastic.

"I didn't drink milk," he said, "and if my provisions required to be kept cooled I put them in an airtight container in the lake. It was quite cold enough down there."

"And very damp, apparently," she said, and took in the glare that returned to her. "You are grumpy, aren't you."

"I have reason enough to be," said Erik, very grumpily. "I am wanted by the law—"

"Maybe if you didn't kill people," she suggested.

" I have not had a chance to bathe in three days—"

"Ah, that would explain the smell."

"And I have been chased by female lunatics ever since that blasted film came out," he continued, glaring at her. "And now, you give me breakfast cereal to eat when I am starving."

"Blasted film?" she said, looking dreadfully offended. "Sorry, are you referring to _the Phantom of the Opera_, starring the lovely and talented Mr. Gerard Butler? Most people say his name wrong, you know, it's not 'Ger-ARD,' it's 'GER-'rd.'"

"I don't care how you bloody pronounce it! I wish the man a long sojourn in hell for all he's done to me— taken away my privacy, given my fans a horrible expectation which I seem unable to live up to—"

"Which expectation would this be?" she said immediately. He glared at her, resenting her apparently insatiable ability to pick up on topics that were offensive to him.

"The look of the man," he finally admitted.

"Ah, you mean— the fact that he gets called 'The Hot Scot,' by pretty much everyone— including, disturbingly, my mother?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Erik with immense dignity.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean his— his, er—" Erik gestured vaguely.

"I believe the word you're looking for is Oh-My-Gawd-So-Sexxxy," supplied Lonny, rolling her eyes dramatically. Erik frowned.

"Is there something wrong with your eyes, young woman?"

"Don't worry about it. Look, Phantom—"

"Phantom," said Erik, getting upset, "is not my name."

"Um, alright— first name basis, then, shall we? Um— 'The,'" she tried.

Erik frowned.

"My name is Erik."

"Oh wait, yeah, I remember that. I didn't ever read the books or anything, but it pops up in fanfiction all the time."

Erik steeled himself. He was not going to ask the obvious question— he was not— he would not— curse it, he was going to.

"What is fan-fiction?"

She gave him a wicked smile. "Intrigued?"

Barely containing himself, he nodded.

"Fan-fiction is the love of my life," she proclaimed. "After Gerry, of course. I'll show you some after you're done eating. I write a lot myself."

He nodded, contemplating the half-empty bowl in front of him. The little floaty bits had him seriously worried.

"Writing is a worthy pasttime, young woman—"

"Lonny. Please. You keep calling me young woman, you sound like my grandfather."

"— and a talent for the finer arts should not be neglected or overlooked," Erik carried on.

"Finer arts?" She grinned. "I like that. I mean, sure, its just fan-fiction, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have class. See, I try to explain that to my parents all the time. They don't get it. I have a readership of twenty-five— twenty-five people get e-mails when I update, see, Erik, that's what readership means. And most of them even review. Its totally awesome. Sorry to sound like a valley-girl, but that's what it is. Totally awesome. I could not live without it. Reviews make my day."

She finally stopped talking and Erik jumped in—

"Suppose you show me now?" he suggested. She smiled once more, a more genuine smile than she'd shown previously, and Erik re-assessed his impression of her. A bit round, yes, and prone to wolfishness, especially when the Blasted Actor was mentioned. But her smile was charming and her eyes were fine. And she wrote— this was an exercise which Erik fully approved of. He looked forward to discovering how she handled words, critiquing her use of description, lecturing her on the proper application of irony—

She showed him to the computer and typed in her password for the Internet.

"Prepare to be amazed," she said, and patted him on the shoulder. Erik shied away from her slightly and she looked at him, surprised.

"Beg pardon, monsieur," she said mockingly. Erik shook his head.

"I mean no offense, but I am really unused to being touched."

"Well, pardon me for breathing," said Lonny lightly, and found the Phantom section of the fanfiction website. "Happy reading."

It took several minutes of staring blankly at the keyboard and the mouse, still warm from her hand, before Erik humbled enough to say, quietly, "Help—"

"Beg pardon?" said Lonny brightly.

Erik glared at her balefully.

"Kindly quit being cute and assist me on this infernal machine."

"I'd have thought the Opera Ghost would know his way around new technology."

"Well, you would be bloody mistaken. Word processors I have no problem with— this— this—" Erik gestured at the screen. "This Inter-Net as you call it— it is truly an abomination."

She bent over him and moved the mouse around haphazardly. "What do you want to read, Erik? One of mine? Or one of the better phictions? Or, better yet, one of the worse?" She grinned again, that wolfish smile, and demonstrated how to click on the title he wished to read. " I'll give you some tips, okay? If, in the summary— this is a summary, right here— if it says 'slash' you don't want to read it. Trust me. Unless you have way more of a sense of humour than I think you do— no. Okay. Tip two. If it says 'R/C' you probably don't want to read it either."

"Why not?" Erik demanded.

"Because 'R/C' stands for 'Raoul/Christine.' It's a phic based on them, and more than likely you will be either dreadfully abused or totally ignored—" She looked at him. "Neither one of which appeal to you, I imagine."

"Christine— and Raoul?" Erik choked out. "Where?"

"I'm telling you, you don't want to read them."

"Where? Confound it, woman, show me at once!"

Lonny sighed deeply and obligingly located a phic which fit the requested category— it was entitled "Plague of the Weaker Vessel," for no apparent reason other than it sounded classy. It went something like this—

_**Four nights**! _

_Four nights of passion!_

_Four nights of passion and intrigue!_

_Had it been **that long **since Raoul had rescued Christine from the dredded Phantom!_

_**Had it been that long!**_

_They lay togehter. Raoul's hands were warm but Christine's boobs shuddered under them._

Erik blinked.

He looked at Lonny, utterly bewildered.

"People read this?"

"Yes." Lonny shrugged.

"On _purpose_?"

"You know what the sad thing is? This phic has gotten twenty-seven reviews— and they're probably all great—" Lonny stared rather sadly at the screen. "Life is crap, Erik."

"You're telling me," Erik muttered. He glared at the despised fiction. "Please make that— _that_ go away."

Lonny obliged.

"More tips, Erik. Look at the rating on things— you probably want to go for nothing more than PG-13."

"Why?" demanded Erik once more.

"Why?" repeated Lonny, smiling slightly. "I'll let you discover that for yourself, okay? Here— give this one a shot."

It was called "Heaven." Lonny backed off and busied herself elsewhere, leaving Erik to peruse the story on his own. For some time there was a quiet, contented humming from him.

"This doesn't seem so bad," he called to her. "Of course the style is nearly nonexistent, but at least the Viscomte hasn't shown up except in memories and bad dreams."

"What chapter are you on?"

"Er— six."

"Uh huh. Keep reading."

Lonny smiled to herself, and Erik kept humming— a strange sound that came as naturally from him as breathing.

He and Christine were put back together, right before his eyes—

They were spending time together, very happy in each other's company. Very happy. Very, very, very happy. There was touching involved— the phic-Erik dared to put a hand to the phic-Christine's cheek, and, responding rather quickly, she put a hand on his—

The humming stopped, his eyes widened in disbelief, and then there was a brief, startled yell as he tried to push the computer away from him and succeeded only in knocking himself over on his back. His black-trousered legs waved slowly in the air.

Lonny came and looked down at him.

"I did warn you," she sighed regretfully.


	5. Warily We Read Along

A/N: Gerry is on Leno tonight! Somebody bring me a drool bucket!

A/A/N: That sounded disgusting, didn't it?

Chapter Five: Warily We Read Along

Disdaining Lonny's hand, Erik picked himself up off the floor, righted the chair and seated himself in it once more, staring balefully at the computer screen.

"This is— that— it's— _pornographic_! There is no other word for it!"

"Yes there is," said Lonny cheerfully. "Smut."

"What?"

"Smut. It rolls of the tongue nicer and doesn't take so long to say. Stick to PG-13s, why don't you, we don't want you to break your neck. Or," she added, putting the keyboard right side up once again, "my computer. Especially since it isn't really even mine."

Erik growled softly, sensing that she was fishing for an apology. He wasn't about to apologize. There was no need for it, there was no absolution in it since he wouldn't mean it, there was no— curse it.

"I am sorry," he said stiffly. Lonny glanced at him in surprise.

"No problem. Now, look, a few more tips. Okay— E/M might amuse you, but I'd be careful."

"E/M?"

"Erik and Meg phics."

Erik stared at her. "Who is Meg?"

"Meg— I don't remember her last name! You're the one who was in the story— she was somebody's daughter or something."

"Giry?" said Erik disbelievingly. "Marguerite_ Giry_? Madame Giry's _daughter_? I was— _coupled_ with _Madame Giry's daughter_?"

He rose in fury, even as Lonny said, "Well, coupled, I don't know from coupled, maybe in a few of the racier ones—"

"This is ridiculous!" bellowed Erik. "Why should I stand by and tamely submit to these abominable fictions when—"

"Phictions. Actually."

"—when I could easily snap the necks of all those who dare write such filth? How dare they write such things? How dare they? How _dare _they?"

"You said that already," observed Lonny quietly.

Erik glared at her, his eyes wide, his mouth open. Quickly she pulled a half-eaten candy bar from the desk drawer and shoved it in his mouth.

"Please stop yelling," she said.

Erik spit the offending chocolate out— and the chewy nougat— and the caramel—

He glared at her even harder, bent over, picked up the Milky Way, and stuck it back in his mouth. Chewing on it furiously, he said, "Yrr fffisshchn 'rr etter er a-hume?"

"What?"

He chewed. The caramel was extremely thick and hard to swallow. He chewed on.

He chewed some more.

He chewed some more.

Lonny tilted her head at him and raised in inquiring eyebrow. Erik lifted one finger, telling her to wait.

He chewed.

Swallowed.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

"I didn't think you were going to eat the whole thing at once," said Lonny, sounding injured. "You could have asked."

Erik swallowed again and gasped. "That was rather heavenly— have you any more?"

"I don't think I should give a fictional character chocolate," said Lonny seriously, "I'm sure there's some sort of rule against it."

"I am no longer a fictional character, I am—"

"Please don't try to explain it again. What were you trying to say?"

"I said, your 'phictions' are better, I assume? Though perhaps assumption of any sort would go amiss here— perhaps I should say I hope and pray."

"Ha ha," said Lonny sarcastically. "I don't know that I care to show you any of mine right now. Who knows what you might do to me."

His eyes blazed. "What did you write?"

"Nothing."

"What did you write about me?"

"Nothing, I swear!"

"_What_?"

"Just that—" Lonny coughed. "You were sexually repressed because you had been abused as a child, and a beautiful OC came and— er— snapped you out of it."

"OC?" enquired Erik, his voice dangerously level and polite.

"Original character."

"Which means—"

"Um— not Christine."

He bared his teeth and she flinched away from him. But he wasn't ready to turn on her— not quite yet.

"What methods did this 'beautiful OC' employ, pray tell, to so effectively 'snap me out of it?'" he purred.

"Um— feminine whiles—"

"Yes, I see. Go on."

"Soft candlelight."

Erik barked a laugh that grated on her ears. She wished he would go back to humming again.

"Um— "

He leaned in. "What?"

"Um— body chocolate?" she squeaked. She shut her eyes immediately, frightened to death of what reaction this would elicit from someone as enraged as Erik— or the Phantom, as she still called him in her mind— was at the moment. After a bit, nothing had happened, and she dared open her eyes and look at him.

He looked— thoughtful.

He cast a glance at the candy wrapper which lay on the ground at his feet.

"Perhaps," he murmured, "I had been going about the whole seduction process from entirely the wrong side." Lonny relaxed. She didn't know what had made him less angry, but he had stopped breathing hellfire in her face, and that helped. His stormy blue eyes flicked up to her.

"Come," he said, seating himself once again at the computer desk, "show me some more of the better, less— disturbing fictions. I wish to learn from them."


	6. Nighttime Sharpens

**A/N: Everyone, I'm so sorry this took so long to update, but as I explained elsewhere, several times I think, the disk that had the next two chapters got corrupted and I got so depressed by losing that, plus all four chapters of the new story I was working on, it took me a long time to break past the writer's block. However, here it is and hopefully it won't take so long next time. Thanks for being so marginally patient!**

**Chapter Six: Nighttime Sharpens**

Lonny directed Erik towards some selected works of phiction, and left him to read as she went upstairs to attempt to convince her newly-arrived parents that she was not, in fact, harboring a formerly-fictional, now immortal and real, almost certainly murderous strange man in a mask in her bedroom.

She succeeded remarkably well.

Later, after being forced to share a little quality time in the living room, she escaped back down to her Erik-infested sanctuary, and found him reading still.

"Um— need anything?"

Erik did not reply, but waved her away vaguely. He was intent on reading.

Lonny shrugged to herself and felt neglected. Gathering her pajamas from underneath her pillow, she went into the bathroom to change, emerging a few minutes later wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts. It may have been early spring outside but it was plenty warm in the basement.

She stopped short at the sight of Erik, still reading away, glanced self-consciously down at her legs, and went back into the bathroom to shave.

Returning once more, she gave Erik a narrow-eyed glance which he obviously didn't see, as he was still engrossed in the computer screen, and jumped onto her bed.

"Are you just going to read all night?"

Erik made a vague grunting noise and waved at her dismissively.

She bounced a little on the mattress. "You know, its kind of rude of you to ignore me like this when I'm being so nice and letting you stay in my room, Phantom."

"And it is exceptionally rude of you," Erik growled quietly, "to continue referring to me by the ambiguous moniker 'Phantom' when you know perfectly well that I have a name."

"Well, you keep calling me young woman."

"And you are one."

"And you're a Phantom."

"Not _a _Phantom," snarled Erik, turning instantly away from the screen. "_The_ Phantom. The Phantom of the Opera— _Erik_. I am the Phantom, there are no others."

"You use an awful lot of italics, and, man, are you full of yourself," said Lonny, blinking at him.

"I am not!"

"The Phantom? I am the Phantom, there is no other? You're paraphrasing from the Bible. That's pretty egotistical."

"I have no ego! I am a lonely and horrific beast who lives underneath the Opera House!"

"Well, you live in my basement now, buster," said Lonny practically. "And I am going to bed, so could you please turn off the computer when you are done. Thank you."

She lay down and turned onto her side, facing the wall. From behind her she heard a soft grunt as Erik suddenly realized that, not only was he forced to share a room with a young woman, she was laying on the only bed.

"Is there a problem?" she asked quietly, smirking to herself. She was enjoying this far too much, she told herself. Far, far too much.

"One would almost assume," said Erik stiffly, "that when one is entertaining a guest, one would attempt to give said guest all possible comfort, even at the expense of one's own comfort."

Lonny sat up and stared at him.

"I'm sorry, could you pontificate just a little more?"

Erik shut his mouth tightly and glared.

"So, you're telling me that after all those years sleeping in a golden swan bed, your bad back just can't stand anything as hard as a carpeted floor, is that it?"

"What swan bed?"

"The swan bed. In the movie."

"I have mentioned it before, and I do so hope I will not be forced to mention it again, but the movie is not reality."

"So? Neither are you."

He stood up from his chair, his tall, skeletal frame unfolding till he loomed over her, the light glinting off his eyes. His cape swirled around him, caught by some unfelt air current. Things were different around him.

"Mademoiselle," he said, and swept her a low bow, "I am as real as it gets."

Lonny stared up at him, awe seeping in at the corners of her cynicality and Gerry-lover-ness. He was an impressive figure, to be sure— the tallest man she had ever seen, perhaps. And, although this was a side-point really and didn't actually mean anything, the only man who had ever been in her bedroom.

"And you want me to give you my bed," she said.

"Yes."

"And if I refuse?"

Words leapt to Erik's tongue, the words of oft-used threats, harking back to his days of fictionhood. But now, he remembered, it was a different century, a different world, a different bedroom and a different girl. She could, if she wished, turn him in to the authorities at a moment's notice, like the others had attempted to do. On top of which, he told himself with an inward groan, he had just gotten through trying to impress his realism on her.

"Well, it is up to you, of course," he said, uncomfortably. Lonny stared up at him for a moment and then smiled.

"Oddly enough, I don't particularly want my sheets to smell like death when my mother washes them," she said. "I mean, nothing personal. But it could lead to some awkward questions."

Erik bowed his head.

"But— suppose I get all my extra pillows and blankets and make you a nest on the floor? Deal?"

He looked up at her and appeared to be thinking about it.

"Very well," he said finally. "That would be— appreciated."

"Fine." She got up and went to the walk in closet, coming back with an armful of linen which she dumped on the floor and then began to sort out, making a mattress of blankets, lining the whole thing with pillows. He watched her, odd sensations climbing into his heart— the beginnings of gratitude, the strains of his anger and loathing gradually fading away.

"There." She stood up and looked down at her handiwork with a certain, and not totally justifiable, pride. "No swan head to stick on there— or was it a swan? Is it a peacock? I don't know. Whatever it was. Nothing to put on there, so the effect isn't quite the same, but what can I say? I ran out of gold paint yesterday. It should be comfortable enough."

He stared at the "nest" dubiously and wondered why she was being silent all of a sudden. Then it struck him that she was waiting for him to try it out.

He stepped in.

"Um, do you mind taking your shoes off first?"

He stepped back out and slipped his highly-polished dress shoes off, then stepped in. Her sudden giggle threw him off balance and he wavered for a moment before managing to sit down, abruptly. He glared at her.

"What, may I ask, is so funny?"

"I just never thought of the Phantom as wearing purple socks, is all."

"They are maroon."

"They look purple to me."

"They are maroon."

"They look purple."

"Regardless of how they may appear to your faulty eyesight, they are maroon," said Erik icily. Lonny shrugged.

"Well, they still look purple." She climbed into her bed and lay watching him for a moment. "You didn't turn off the computer."

Erik sighed, stood, and reached for the wall plug.

"That's not how you—"

"What?"

"Nevermind."

He pulled it out and the computer died instantly. Lonny sighed to herself.

"A technologically illiterate Phantom," she said. "I guess its to be expected, really."

He stood for a few moments, looking unsure. Suddenly she realized that he undoubtedly wanted to go to sleep, and that he undoubtedly would like to undress first, and with a faint blush creeping over her face she turned back to the wall and closed her eyes.

"I can run and get you some sweatpants from my father, if you want—"

"No, I can manage tonight. Thank you, mademoiselle."

There were various rustlings going on behind her back that she would have found fascinating had it been the Gerard Butler version. She had to admit to being somewhat curious even as things were, but it was much easier to resist the temptation to turn and look over her shoulder when she knew it was really just some old murderer who was removing his clothes on her bedroom floor. The age-old question flashed through her mind—

Boxers or briefs?

—and she had to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from giggling loud enough for Erik to hear.

Finally the rustling stopped and she surmised that he had settled down for the night. She twisted slightly and glanced down at him.

He lay on his back, the covers pulled up so only the tops of his shoulders and his collarbone showed. His mouth was open slightly, his hair already beginning to be mussed, and the light shone off of the mask, which even now he did not remove.

After she stared down at him for five minutes she realized that his eyes were open and he was staring back.

It was rude to stare, but even ruder to stare and then pretend you hadn't been, and so she swallowed and said, "If not a swan bed— what did you sleep in? Down there under the Opera Populaire?"

Yellow eyes bored into brown ones.

Erik's lips moved.

"A coffin," he said. "I slept in a coffin."

Lonny was hypnotized by the pain in his quiet voice, and she got the sensation that her tiny and unrefined soul lay alongside a much larger one, like a minnow by a whale.

"That," she said, "is— really morbid."

Then she turned back onto her side and faced away from him.

Cynicality, much like pride and self-sufficiency, doesn't get torn down in a day.


	7. The Underwear Caper

Chapter Seven: The Underwear Caper

Lonny woke up early, at nearly seven, and comforted herself with the thought that it was Saturday and she wasn't due to show her face above-stairs for another two hours. Her parents liked their privacy, and preferred her to stay in her room in the mornings until breakfast. She contented herself with considering what breakfast would be— this being Saturday, she was free to spend as much time cooking as she liked. Considering that she wasn't very good at it, this wasn't likely to be long, but it was nice to have the opportunity if she wanted it. She thoroughly enjoyed the results of long cooking sessions, simply didn't like the effort. For a while she toyed with the idea of what she could do to bribe her mother into making French toast.

Finally she swung her legs over the side of her bed, having forgotten that there was a man on her carpet, and stepped on Erik's face.

He yelled.

She yelled.

They were both just loud enough to reach her parents in the room above their heads, and her parents yelled.

He yelled again.

She yelled.

The parents yelled.

Erik yelled, "We have to stop yelling!"

Lonny yelled, "What do you suggest?"

The parents yelled, "What's going on down there?"

Erik emitted a cut-off sound like a squeak as he closed his lips, shut tight over the next yell, which had been gathering itself in his throat and was sure to be a doozy. Lurching up from underneath the bedcovers he clamped a hand over Lonny's open mouth. For a moment they stared into each other's eyes, breathing fast. Part of Lonny's mind registered that Erik was at least half naked, and she couldn't see the other half in order to be sure, and a blush stole over her face.

"Silence," hissed Erik quietly.

Lonny nodded.

He tensed, and slowly removed his hand from her mouth. She gulped in air and nodded slightly, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his face— though she couldn't help but notice the sharpness of the protruding collar bones. He was just a skeleton with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly over.

From above came another couple of startled yelps as Lonny's parents decided that nothing important was happening and turned their attention back to each other. Lonny decided to ignore this if at all possible.

Erik finally released her from his gaze, now looking slightly self conscious as he gathered a blanket around him and lay down again.

"Are you—" she started.

"You may have the lavatory first," he cut her off.

The blush deepened as she stepped carefully over him and made her way to the bathroom. At the door she turned and glanced back at him. He lay quietly, his arms at his sides, the mask staring blankly up at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry—" she started, and had to stop and clear her throat. "—that I stepped on your face."

He didn't reply, and finally she stopped waiting for him to speak and went in the bathroom.

She'd had the presence of mind to grab her clothes, and so she put on her jeans and t-shirt first and then stared at herself in the mirror. How could this possibly have happened to someone normal and boring like her? Gradually it was becoming impressed on her mind that despite the fact that this Erik wasn't her favourite Phantom, he was still a Phantom— the Phantom, if you listened to him, as she was increasingly inclined to do. By nature a cynical young woman, Lonny had always assumed that when faced with some deep truth about life or about herself, she would be able to shake it off with a shrug and a muttered, "Whatever."

But you didn't say, "Whatever," to the Phantom of the Opera. He punjabbed you if you did, for one thing.

She shook herself out of her introspective stupor and washed her face, brushed her teeth, then attacked her hair with a brush. It took a while. Sometimes on the weekends she didn't even bother, but not bothering wasn't really an option this morning.

Finally she opened the door and stepped back into the bedroom, thinking to herself that she was as ready as she'd ever be. Erik twisted around and glanced at her— he was dressed once more, complete with coat and cravat, and was seated at the computer table, aimlessly punching keys.

"It won't come on," she said. "You unplugged it."

He said nothing, only stood up after jabbing at the keyboard a few more times. He turned to face her.

"Good morning," he said formally. "Lonny."

The use of her name made her smile, and she reckoned to herself that Erik had been doing some thinking as well.

She swept him a bow back.

"Good morning. Erik."

He straightened his shoulders and put his hands behind his back. "In order to complete my morning ablutions I will require some very soft towels, a basin of hot water, a straight-edge, non-electric razor—"

"Why the razor?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why the razor? You don't have any stubble or anything at all." She squinted at him. "Do you even have facial hair? I can't tell if you have eyebrows or not."

He proved the existence of the eyebrows, or one of them at least, by pulling them down aggressively and frowning at her. She smiled back.

"There's shower in the bathroom, you can use my towel as its clean, or mostly clean anyway, and you can borrow my razor. Provided," she added hastily, "that you wash it off after and don't use it on anything other than your face." She ignored the look of befuddled outrage on his face and went on. "As you can hear from the sounds above us, my parents are getting up. If you hurry, you may get some hot water, but I can't answer for it if you don't."

He frowned at her a moment more and then, swayed by the argument of hot water, pushed past her into the bathroom, slamming the door. Lonny grinned to herself for a moment and then went upstairs.

Her parents were going to be gone for the day, something which Lonny appreciated, though she couldn't act too enthusiastic or they would have been able to tell that something was up. She patiently shepherded them through breakfast, into their jackets, and out the door, before calling to Erik that he could come up, and going to the kitchen to get something to eat.

When he showed, his hair was carefully brushed back, with his fingers apparently, and shone wetly. He'd nicked himself with the razor, and Lonny handed him a paper towel. Then she scrutinized him.

"How long have you been wearing those clothes?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I—" He gave up. "I can't remember. However long its been since I became a fugitive from the law."

"I see." She shook her head. "Come with me, we'll get you something from my father's closet. He's quite a bit fatter than you, but—"

"No, mademoiselle." The quiet certainty of his voice took her by surprise.

"But its just clothes, Erik. What's the big deal? I can get you some jeans, a sweater—"

"No, Lonny. The Phantom of the Opera does not wear jeans. Or—" he shuddered slightly. "Sweaters."

Lonny raised her eyebrow. "Are you telling me you think you'll lose your identity if you change your clothes? Is that what you're telling me? Look, buster, you'll still have the mask. I'll still know its you. But those clothes need to be washed. Look at them, they're all rumpled and— okay, so they're in pretty good shape for your having worn them for however long it is. But I still can't just let you wear them around. I'll give you some clean ones, and I'll wash those, and then you can have them back, okay?"

It took some more discussion, wheedling, pleading, threats, and puppy eyes, but Lonny finally managed to get him into the bathroom. After a lengthy pause, he pulled the door ajar and wordlessly handed her a stack of clothes— she noted to her amusement that he'd folded them neatly and arranged them in apparently alphabetical order.

In return she handed him some things she'd lifted from her father's wardrobe. He took them without a word, but from behind the door came a faint sigh of disgust. Lonny grinned to herself and took Erik's clothes to the laundry room, humming quietly to herself.

After a few moments she stopped humming and said, quite audibly, "Yay for masked men in black boxers."


	8. Numerous References to Cheese

**A/N: A bit more friend-plugging in this chapter, for which I think I can be forgiven. I only mention the phics that I think should be read. Also, a reference is made in this chapter to Good Omens, one of my two favourite books, written by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Wholly recommended. Hilarious. Take it from me, a Crowley fangirl. That is all.**

**Chapter Eight: Numerous References to Cheese**

At considerable length, he emerged from the bathroom, attired in jeans and sweater— leading Lonny to wonder how in the world he managed to turn a perfectly normal, slightly rumpled outfit that was sagged around the waist and shoulders, into the most elegant, smoothly-lined uniform she'd ever seen.

She thought about asking him, for a few seconds, and quickly decided against it.

"You look nice," she said brightly. He glowered at her as though she'd just given him the rudest insult she could think of. "I put your clothes in the washer. You can have them back in an hour or so."

Without a word, he stalked past her, headed back down for the basement. She hurried after him.

"Don't you want some breakfast?"

"No, thank you."

"I'll make you some toast. Do you drink orange juice?"

"No."

"Alright, I'll bring you some coffee then. Do you want blueberry jam on your toast or strawberry?"

"No."

"Strawberry, then."

He swung round and glared at her. "Do you even listen to a word I say? I'm here talking and you just run right over everything I say without a second thought. Hasn't anyone ever told you that's an incredibly rude way to act?"

"Blueberry?"

He sighed harshly and started down the stairs, running a hand over his slicked-back hair, straightening his clothes, looking for all the world like a man getting ready to meet the woman he had a crush on— which made Lonny worry slightly over which phic he was reading.

"Um— Erik?"

He ignored her and carried on down the stairs. She decided to leave it for the moment, went and made him toast. So she wasn't supposed to have food in the basement— so what? There was a bigger issue at stake here, and she couldn't get rid of the nagging sensation that, if her parents had suspected she might someday harbor a fictional fugitive in her bedroom, that probably would have been forbidden as well. She decided to disregard this idea for as long as possible, and made the toast as quickly as possible.

He was so engrossed in the computer screen that she was able to sneak up behind him and peer over his shoulder.

"Aha," she said in his ear. "_An Eternity of This_. I should have known."

At least, that's what she intended to say. Shortly after the first exhalation she made, she felt his hand clamp around her throat— not tightly, causing her no pain, but an undeniable pressure, intended to let her know that her presence, this close to him, was not welcome. His fingers choked off her voice for the beat of three seconds, then let her go. She backed off, rubbing her throat.

"That wasn't very nice," she said, quietly.

Erik's unfathomable eyes were fixed on the screen; his eyelids didn't flicker. She ventured a bit closer and eyed him, then the computer.

"Ah, you're at that part," she said. "Well— I forgive you then."

Erik nodded, slowly.

For some time, Lonny lay on the bed, holding her battered copy of "_Good Omens_" above her head, reading; and Erik read through several more chapters, occasionally chewing his lower lip, once in a while shifting his weight as though uncomfortable. Finally he heaved a sigh and sat back.

"It is not finished?"

"No," said Lonny, marking her place in her book (the birthday party, with the water guns and the pigeon) and sitting up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and giving him her full attention. "I imagine it will go on for a while yet— which I'm glad of, I must say."

He frowned at the screen. "Will she update soon?"

"I don't know, Erik. You know what they say— good things come to those who wait." Lonny frowned. "Unless you're waiting for a bus. In which case you just get— a bus."

Erik sighed.

"Or," said Lonny, "if you're waiting in the middle of the street. Then you just get run over. Which isn't— good, I mean."

Erik turned his eyes away from her and towards the screen, his gaze longing.

"So," said Lonny, delicately, "can I take it that you are not quite as set against OWs as you were?"

"OWs—"

"Other Women."

He sighed, again. "These are turbulent times," he said ruminatively. "Obviously, though one would wish to cling to the loves one has known in one's life, one would necessarily perforce be pressed into adaptation to new ideas and concepts."

Lonny gave a sage nod. "You know," she said, "if you said that in French, I'd have more of a chance of understanding. Do you write words for your songs like that? Does anyone understand them?"

He frowned. "I do not write words for my songs— they tend to be music only."

"That's— boring," said Lonny.

Erik took a deep breath and aimlessly clicked the mouse button a few times. "The music speaks for itself."

His voice was quiet, and impressed her with its starkness. She sobered a bit and sat up straight.

"I know," she said. "Or— well, I don't know, but I understand. I think."

His lips twitched up in a slight smile. "Someday I will show you. I believe I can make you understand."

"Alright," said Lonny. Her seriousness dissipated quickly, and she got up off the bed. "You might try some of the funny phics. They're not as good as the serious ones, but they're— funnier."

He turned to one side, glanced down at the desk, and saw the toast which was now cold. With a slight shrug he picked it up and took a bite. "Perhaps I will. I have tried a few of them— there would seem to be many puns which do not entirely make sense to me."

"Oh yeah?" The toast had left slight traces of strawberry jam on the bottom lip of the mask, and Lonny snickered to herself and decided not to point it out. It would only embarrass him— "Like what, for instance?"

"There are numerous references to the cheese."

Lonny blinked. "Ah, yes, well— you might as well just ignore those ones."

"You don't think you could explain it to me?"

"Not a chance," she said firmly. "The same with, well, muffins. No muffin questions, best just to leave that kind of thing alone. Anyway. I'll go through and find some that you might like. You want me to try now?"

He sighed. "Actually, I was going to endeavor to read the story called _Fraternite_— the first chapter appealed to me."

"Oh, right on." She sank back onto the bed as he turned back to the computer. Clearly he intended to be preoccupied for some time.

Which left her in an interesting position. The Phantom of the Opera was in her bedroom— and he was busy reading fanfiction. There was a cruel irony in this, if she could but grasp it—

Oh yes, that was it.

The opportunity of a lifetime was flitting by, waving merrily, and going on its way. She made a sound halfway between a growl and a sigh. Erik took no notice.

She was watching as he eagerly clicked forward to the next chapter when the ghost of a Very Interesting Idea entered her mind. Speculatively she watched his long fingers; he'd gotten rather comfortable with the keyboard, in quite a short time.

Perhaps, she thought—

The nice thing about the Very Interesting Idea was it would be good for him, and rewarding for her. That's what made it Very Interesting.

Of such stuff our dreams are made.


	9. Proposition of a Revealing Nature

**Chapter Nine: Proposition of a Revealing Nature**

"No."

There was a bit of a pause.

"Why not?"

"For," said Erik, his tone turning dangerous, "exactly the same reason I have been answering in the negative the past ten times you asked me."

"Oh," said Lonny, and for a brief second he hoped she had at last given it up as a bad job. Then she went on, "Maybe that's your problem. You're too negative. You need some optimism in life, Erik, something to put a smile on your face. As you walk down the lane, just singing— singing— _you're singing in the raaaaaaain!_"

These last few lines were delivered on her knees, arms spread wide, face upturned, eyes closed. She opened them, and blinked at him a few times. Erik scowled at her.

"Kindly never do that in my presence again."

"Huh." She got to her feet. "Maybe you can give me singing lessons as a thank-you for me letting you stay in my room."

"Perhaps." Erik's tone indicated that it was highly unlikely.

"Or maybe," Lonny suggested, "you should just give in and write a story, like I suggested."

"I won't! I refuse!"

"But it'd be the definitive version—"

"Not a chance," said Erik, and folded his arms firmly.

"But it'd be popular, I bet, and everyone would love you, and you'd get tons of reviews, and I bet it'd elevate my readership a bit—"

"Fan fiction," said Erik with a glare. "Of which the chief rules are 1. Keep your readers' interest in any way possible, even if it means prostituting all the male characters. 2. Never proofread, for it is entirely pointless, and misspellings often add an element of amusement to stories that otherwise would be completely devoid of entertainment. 3. Pander to the audience, if possible, by including their names in the story and giving them interaction with their favorite character, whether they fit in the plot, if there is a plot, which is unlikely, or not. 4. Find someone who seems to have a lot of readers, and plagiarize their ideas. Not to mention the basic tipoffs of popular writing— if there is any mention of thighs by the second chapter, there will be illicit relations soon afterwards. Should there, God forbid, be an occasion of lightheartedness, the comedy must be overdone and slightly offensive, and the angst should be milked for all it is worth. And let me not even start to discuss the punctuation— nearly everything I've read has been marred by the spurious misuse, abuse, and overuse of punctuation; commas and exclamation marks flying everywhere as though caught in a high wind. This— this is what you would ask me to write? To expend my genius on, as though I had nothing worthwhile to do with my time?"

Lonny blinked at him for a few minutes. "Well," she said brightly, "you seem to have the basics down rather well. Perhaps you could just—"

"No."

His tone was definite, and rather scary in that it conveyed the suggestion of the possibility of punjabbing in the near future. Lonny sat on the bed and stared at him.

"I think its—"

"No."

"But I—"

"No."

"Look, if you—"

"No."

"Can't I just—"

"No."

Lonny let out an exasperated sigh and flopped back on the bed, hitting her head on the wall. "Ow," she said, in as pitiful a tone as she could manage. Erik ignored her, and turned back to the computer.

They stayed like that for a while, Lonny contemplating the ceiling and Erik contemplating the concept of appearing in a Speedo. He was about to smash in the computer with a nearby golf club when Lonny sat up and said, "What about if the story ended differently?"

Erik glared at the computer and said, "It had _better_ end differently! As if I would ever display myself in such a costume!"

"No, I mean— your story. Suppose we— alright, you, suppose you wrote it and somehow— reality altered, so that Christine stayed with you, instead of going off with the fop?"

Erik turned to look at her. Clearly it was an intriguing idea to him, and, just as clearly, he didn't want to admit it.

"Go on," he said.

Lonny grinned manically. "Magical things happen every day," she said. "Wonderful, magical, mystical things. Wonderful, magical, mystical, mysterious, arcane, phantasmal, tremendous things. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, for instance, finally was made into a movie after, I think, some thirty-odd years. After that, I have faith."

"Faith in what?" queried Erik suspiciously.

"In everything," said Lonny, "it saves time."

She got to her feet and spread her arms in order to expound more adequately, but words failed her and she simply stood for a moment, rocking back and forth on her heels.

Erik stared at her. Obviously she couldn't really see his expression, but she could feel one eyebrow raising sardonically, and finally she managed to speak.

"Look, you were once a fictional character."

"Not according to Leroux," said Erik stiffly.

"Well, I wouldn't know about that, not having read it. But you were once. And then somehow you became real, slid into reality without a second thought. Words have power. Whose to say that it couldn't happen again?"

His yellowish eyes remained fixed on her, and clearly he was thinking about this. Lonny bit her lip, hoping he would throw himself into the dubious logic of her proposition and overlook the fact that she had made it up on the spur of the moment. And anyway—

It could happen.

It was unlikely— astoundingly, amazingly so, but still. The possibility was there.

Lonny was not very old, but already she had learnt not to give up on the ability of life to surprise the crap out of you when you least expected this. She had gone a long ways to learning this the night before, when the Phantom of the Opera crawled in her bedroom window.

"Alright," said Erik. "We shall give it a try."

Lonny grinned and dropped her arms down to her sides.

"That's all I ask of you," she said, quite conscious of the fact that she was borrowing words from the musical. She did, however, manage to refrain from breaking into song, since Erik had asked her so nicely. "Just a try. What more can anyone ask? Apart from muffins."

Erik scowled at her abruptly.

"Nevermind," said Lonny, "not important. Now. You want me to type? I type pretty fast."

She gestured for him to move out of the chair so she could sit down, and he did, slowly and regally rising to full height, looking down at her over the mask.

"You don't need to do that, I am already suitably impressed," she told him. He ignored her, stepped away, and sat down on the bed, stiffly; clearly he was not used to other people's beds. Well, Lonny thought, he wouldn't be, would he.

She sat down and popped her knuckles, wiggling her fingers over the keys before calling up WordPerfect. "What shall we call it?"

He dragged his eyes away from a deep contemplation of his hands, and glanced at her. His mouth opened slightly, and for once he appeared to be totally without a reply of any kind. Lonny took this in, and said suddenly, "You know— I think I have to read the original book."

"Yes?"

"Yes," she said. "I just don't get you at all."

Again, she felt the presence of that invisible eyebrow sliding up on the invisible forehead.

"And you believe that reading the book will help?"

"Why, won't it?"

Erik snorted.

Lonny shrugged.

"I do not know what to call it," said Erik. "I am— not used to naming things."

Lonny nodded and began to type. "Not a problem."

Erik sat patiently, absentmindedly digging the toe of one of his shoes into the carpet, and smoothing the thick material of his jeans over his bony knees; plucking the rumpled sweater into neatness, till the lines were smooth and straight. Then he looked up, to find Lonny grinning at him.

She gestured at the screen.

"What do you think?"

Erik stood, came forward, and bent over her to read the words on the screen. His breath stirred Lonny's hair, and as he bent awkwardly to avoid touching her, she thought to herself that it wasn't exactly death he smelled of— the scent was more the accumulation of years, an ancient dust, too many nights spent alone.

He read the title aloud.

"_Behind the Mask: Musings and Reflections of a Disfigured Musical Genius._"

Lonny waited with almost-bated breath.

Finally, Erik nodded.

"Well, its got a bit of a ring to it, doesn't it?"

It was at that point that the very first bit of her dedicated phangirl-ness began to peel away, revealing a soul beneath that was truly touched by the idea of star-crossed love.

It took her a very, very, very long time to realize this, however.


	10. Chapter One and Confrontations

**Chapter Ten: Chapter One and Confrontations**

"Ah, so, I see you lied."

"What? What'd I lie about, exactly?"

"You do not either type fast."

"What? I type fast! Look at me!"

He looked at her.

She was self-conscious because he was looking at her, and had to type the word "the" three times in order to get it right.

"I see," he said at last.

"So. We've got a start. Not a very good one, but a start nonetheless, and that's what matters in this game. Shall I upload the first chapter or do you want to write ahead a bit?"

Erik wasn't entirely sure what she meant, but he deciphered it from the context. Heaving a sigh and trying to rub at his eyes under the mask, he slumped backwards, and then just lay flat out on her bed, spreadeagling his arms and legs.

Lonny stared at him.

"Hang on a minute," she said, "I have to get my camera."

"No cameras!" bellowed Erik, sitting up.

"Just lay back down and relax. Nobody would ever believe that the Phantom of the Opera slept in my bed. This is a Kodak moment if I ever saw one."

"I am not in your bed, I am on it! And I am not sleeping! I am not even lying down any more, and my concentration is totally gone, thanks to you."

He glared at her. She grinned back, a bit sheepishly.

"So— upload the first chapter, then?"

Erik grunted slightly.

"I'll take that as a yes."

The first chapter of Behind the Mask was basically comprised of Erik's recollections of his childhood, as Lonny had assured him that this was what all autobiographies started out with. He was beginning to wish that he had just ignored her, and talked about the main plot, or theme, of his life— the Opera House. Christine. Raoul de Chagny.

As a matter of fact, he thought, as he worried over how people would react, he wished he had ignored her entirely and not written anything at all.

_I don't remember much about being young. I suppose I was young once, but obviously the experience was not particularly enjoyable, as it didn't stick in my mind, and I was loathe to try it more than once. It is partly for this reason that I do not believe in reincarnation. The idea is far too depressing. Were I to believe in reincarnation, I would undoubtedly go around looking even more dour than I do now. I do often look quite dour, I am told. I do not think it is my fault. You would look dour too, I say, if you were a disfigured musical genius who has been forcefully pulled into reality and doomed to life eternal amongst the madmen of this perverted generation. Madmen of this generation are quite different from those of my youth, which, as I said, I cannot clearly recall. However, I do recall the madmen. There is a certain element to madmen that never changes, regardless of the year. However, it does seem to me that madmen are both made and celebrated at whim. There are many things that people do these days that would have gotten you condemned to the gallows in my youth which, as I have said repeatedly, I cannot quite remember, but I do remember gallows. The gallows is a painful way in which to die. If nothing else, the anticipation alone is a killer. You drop suddenly and if the rope doesn't snap your neck, as it usually does, you struggle to breathe for a few moments before you kick your last and you are dead. I myself narrowly avoided the gallows on several occasions. These occasions came later in life, and so I am able to remember them. One of them was when I was consort to the Queen of the Ayrabs. The Ayrabs are a hardy people, much given to drink and fighting, or do I mean the Irish?_

"You know, its all very well and good to talk about punctuation," said Lonny, as she read over the first chapter, "but you really have paragraph issues, you know that?"

"What is that remark intended to imply, mademoiselle?" asked Erik, drawing himself up.

"It is intended to imply exactly what it sounded like it implied. This whole chapter is one long paragraph. I'm going to have to edit."

"No!"

She glanced quizzically at him.

"What?"

"No paragraphs. Leave it as it is, if you please."

She nearly laughed, but stopped herself in time. "Listen, Erik, I don't know how people wrote in your time, but in this day and age, we like paragraphs. The white space distracts us from the fact that we're using our brains. Makes it much more palatable."

"Bugger palatable, don't touch that enter key."

"Don't bugger palatable," said Lonny mildly, "its what gets me through the day."

Her finger hovered over the return key.

Erik stared at her and she stared back.

Slowly, deliberately, she pressed it twice.

He gave a growl and reached for her, catching her wrist in between his long fingers.

"Did I not tell you to leave it as it was?"

"Its ridiculous," she said, almost calmly, wholly conscious of his grip on her. His skin was cold, his touch strangely exciting.

Erik could feel her heartbeat escalating, and with a slight grunt he let her go.

"Its my story, isn't it?"

"But its going on my account," she said, "and I reserve beta privileges for myself."

For a long moment they stared at each other, and Erik's fingers twitched. Had she been someone, anyone else, those narrow hands would have been around her neck, and she would have passed out from lack of air, and then he would have un-edited as he saw fit. By the time she awoke she would have been too frightened of him to do anything but what he told her to.

But that was just it.

He did not want her to be frightened.

She annoyed him, but he was oddly grateful.

He sat back, and with a curt gesture of his hand, let her know that she had free rein. Well, within reason.

Lonny flashed him a triumphant smile before she could stop herself, and began to upload.


	11. The First Review

**Chapter Eleven: The First Review**

Deep breath.

Straight breathing, none of this huffing stuff.

Breathe in, breathe out.

No, not simultaneously.

First one, then the other.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Control the anxiety; it won't do any good.

Channel that nervousness into something productive.

Stop twitching.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

"Alright," said Erik, after a few more moments of this, "I'm ready to read it now."

Lonny stared at him.

"Its just a review," she said. "No biggie."

Erik breathed in again, jerkily. "Just— read it to me. No, let me read it. No, read it to me."

Lonny sighed. "Are you going to do this every time you get a review? Because frankly, its exhausting."

Erik steeled himself and nodded shortly. "Read it to me."

Lonny quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Sure?"

He nodded.

She opened her mouth.

"No no, no, let me read it."

She stood up, gestured him towards the chair, and marched into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Left alone with the computer, Erik circled it warily a few times, before lunging at the seat and leaning forward into the screen, his eyes devouring every word he found there.

There weren't very many.

The review said, simply, this:

"Hey PhantomsGirl, what up? THis rawks. Update soon plez!"

He blinked at it a few times.

Then he called, tentatively, "Lonny—"

"Yeah?" she said from the bathroom.

"This review appears to have been written in some sort of code. I can't read it."

"What's it say?"

"I— don't know."

"Who's it from? It says on the page."

"EriktehHawt2005," said Erik, dubiously.

"Oh, yeah, I know her. She reviews practically everything I write."

"But— there's a reference in here, Lonny, to PhantomsGirl. Who is this PhantomsGirl?"

She opened the door and stood in the doorway, her small, thick body looking sad and awkward as she leaned against the wall.

"That's me," she said quietly.

Erik turned around and looked at her.

She looked back.

"You are not my girl," said Erik.

Lonny gave a sad half-smile, and moved forward into the room.

"I know that, Erik. Its just the name I chose for my fanfiction account."

He turned back to the screen and stared silently at the words. She ventured closer.

"Erik? Its just— just for fun. Its not real, and nobody thinks I'm really your girl."

Still he said nothing, and his breath was slow and ragged.

"Do you want me to change it?" she said quietly.

"Please," said Erik, though the word sounded as though it were torn from him.

She sighed deeply and motioned him out of the chair, then slid in after him, her spine tingling at the warmth he left behind. Overly conscious of his presence just at her left elbow, she swallowed hard and typed slowly and deliberately.

"What should I become, then?"

"Can you not use your name?"

"Lonny is a horribly boring thing to be called. I'd rather not."

"Then call yourself what you are."

"Oh yeah?" She sounded mildly amused, and swung to face him. "And what is that?"

His face—

—was right—

—there.

He did not speak, but she looked at him and read volumes in his eyes.

Lonny the Strange.

Lonny Herself.

Lonny the Young Woman.

Lonny the Blessed.

Lonny the Kind, the Compassionate, the Beginning-To-Be-Wise.

She turned back to the screen, feeling slightly hysterical tears pricking behind her eyeballs, and typed—

_Erik's Savior._

He sighed heavily, but did not contradict her.

And life went on from there.


	12. Adventures In WordPerfect

Chapter Twelve: Adventures in WordPerfect

The keyboard rattled as she pounded away on it, entirely heedless of the fact that Erik had at last passed out on her bed. It had been six hours— six hours of word definition, bickering over paragraphs and chapter separations, chapter titles, Erik's favoring of certain well-worn cliches, the need to appeal to a wider demographic, and Erik's irritation with Lonny's admittedly atrocious spelling. She'd finally gotten so sick of his calling her on i-e and e-i words that she gave up the computer for him to type for a while— whereupon he sat down and immediately got writer's block. Lonny had nodded and snickered to herself for a bit before being dramatically threatened, and then sat back down and things went on as before— exactly as before.

Six hours.

Two chapters more, and Erik was obviously exhausted. He wasn't used to telling his story— even when appearing before his adoring fans, he spoke little about his past. The story was too well known as it was; it needed no repetition. And now, tired from the task, he'd finally passed out in the middle of a critical examination of the conversational habits of the ballet rats. Lonny, who had stopped paying attention some forty minutes prior, noticed with concern that the last phrase he'd gotten out was 'delicate upper arches.' With relief she realized he'd been talking about their feet.

She now alternated between editing the fifteen pages of chapters two and three, and posting her latest entry in her blog.

_No one's going to believe this,_ she wrote, _but since no one reads this anyway, I don't guess it matters. The Phantom of the Opera is currently living in my basement bedroom. Not the fun, sexy, Gerry version— the real guy. Full mask, smell of death, tendency to try and strangle me, the works. Okay, so I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed by his lack of Scottish accent. But I'm starting to realize that this guy—_

She paused, lifted her fingers delicately off the keys, and glanced towards the tortured soul who was sleeping heavily on her denim bedspread. Sleeping hard— stretched out on his belly, the mask pressing into his face in what appeared to be a painful manner, his arms bent up above his head.

She turned back to the computer.

_Never mind what I realize. Seriousness isn't my strong suit, and anything I could possibly say would be impossibly corny, no matter how true it is. What I want to know is, if the Phantom of the Opera has no nose, how is he managing to snore?_

A light, a delicate sound, yet it still made her stifle a giggle or two.

Curiousity strikes sudden, it strikes hard.

_I wonder what he looks like— _

Bad idea— she knew perfectly well it was one of the worst ideas she could possibly have. But— it was normal to be curious. It's the effort to hide something that attracts the most attention.

How asleep was he?

Oh, God, why did her body always act without waiting for an order from her brain?

She was leaning over him, one hand reaching out, before she even realized what she was doing. She wasn't breathing at all— she wasn't even sure her heart was still beating— everything had gone dead silent, and the only movement was her hand, inching towards his face.

So close—

So close—

Too close.

His eyes shot open and fixed on her the hardest, coldest glare she'd ever seen. She stopped dead, transfixed by his eyes—

His lips moved. "I do not want to have to kill you," he said.

Her voice— her voice was gone. Kill her— no, he didn't kill Christine when she saw him underneath the mask, but he loved Christine. Love stayed his hand. But in this situation—

His eyes demanded a reply.

She finally managed one.

"And I do not want to have to die." Too flip for the occasion, entirely too flip.

His voice, like steel. "Then remove yourself from my vicinity with all haste, mademoiselle, before I forget what I owe you."

"Oh, that _hurt_," she said, but quietly; she didn't think he'd heard her. It _did _hurt, anyway— she meant it. To think— to know that he only restrained himself from killing her because he felt himself obligated to her.

Although, actually—

She turned back to him, as he sat now looking at her alertly. She flashed him her brightest, 100-watt smile.

"Has it struck you yet, how ludicrous this whole situation is?" she enquired.

He regarded her warily.

"What do you mean?"

She stuck her lip out and did her best Bogart. "Of all the basements in all the towns in all the world, you walk into mine," she said. The blank look in his eyes made one thing perfectly clear. "Not a Bogie fan, are we?"

"Who is this Bogie?"

"Old time movie actor. I was doing his voice."

"Ah." His brow cleared slightly. "He speaks with a lips?"

"Not so much a lisp as a mouthful of spit," she explained pleasantly. "I'm sorry I reached for your mask."

"I trust you won't do it again."

"Lets hope not," she said fervently.

He nodded at her then, and stood up, his form bent slightly as he leaned forward to peer at the screen. "You are still typing?"

"Yes," she said, sliding immediately into the chair and trying to close the window that held her blog. As usually happens when you try to close something before someone else sees it, she closed every window but the one she wanted to. She could feel his gaze on her; if he hadn't noticed the frantic motions of her hands, the flush on her cheeks would undoubtedly give her away.

Sure enough—

"Are you writing about me?" he inquired gently, his breath brushing against her cheek. She swallowed hard and leaned, ever so slightly, away from him. Too confusing, she thought, too much, just let me be and leave me alone, I can't take it. Assault on the senses. Get away, please. Overwhelming.

She leaned away a little further, her breath coming hard, and slid off the chair. He watched with amusement in his eyes as she fell in a heap, brushing her hair out of her face and looking at him with as much innocence as she could muster at the moment.

"No," she said, breezily, "what makes you think that?"

A second longer he gazed down at her, no smile on his lips but that same amusement in his eyes. "I don't appreciate being lied to."

She planted her palms on the ground behind her and pushed herself up to her feet. "Very few do," she conceded. "Yes, I was writing about you. Its my journal, I write about everything in there. No big deal."

Erik nodded slightly, raised a hand to his chin and fingered his lips pensively. "And if you're quite finished with that," he said, "perhaps we could go on?"

She settled slowly back into the seat, yanking her t-shirt untucked from her jeans, and focused on the screen, calling WordPerfect back up and tilting her head at it thoughtfully. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

He glanced at her suddenly in surprise, and didn't seem to know quite how to answer that. Obviously the idea of enjoying something like this had never occurred to him. She cast her eyes towards him for just a second, and tried unsuccessfully to hide a smile. "You don't have to say anything," she said.

He resented that, she could tell. Mostly because his eyes flashed fire and he said, harshly, "Did you not tell me that writing this story would change things, would bring Christine and I together? Is that not an adequate reason to wish that the storytelling would go on apace, so as to get it over and done with as quickly as possible?"

"Yes—"

"So let us not attempt to come up with the workings behind my mind," he said, "but let us simply do what we are here to do. You have a short time on this earth only. Pray do not waste it."

Somewhere in her mind the retort, _"And writing fanfiction isn't a waste of my time?" _echoed, but she didn't say it. She merely nodded, pressing her lips together firmly to hide her frown.

_That's right, he's immortal, I forgot._

_Is that an immortal's way of saying, "I haven't got all day?"_

Beside her, Erik took a deep breath.

"And now," he said, "where did we leave off?"


	13. Write On

Chapter Thirteen: Write On

"Where were we?"

_Its difficult to explain exactly what I felt when laying eyes on Christine Daae for the first time. There was something about this young woman that caught th attention and held it fast, like a trapped bird. Except, one that doesn't even try to flutter its little wings and get free. A sort of tranquilized bird, if you will, or one that's eaten so much seed it simply doesn't wish to move, only wants to sleep. Not that listening to Christine makes one want to go to sleep, I mean, except for in certain passages of the older operas which tend to get a bit bogged down in the extremities of sentiment and rather implausible passion— given that these sections are generally performed by extremely large men and women whose most invigorating activity is walking to and from the dinner table. This is ridiculous to me, of course, as I manage to keep my voice up to its usual high standards of excellence without eating like a whale— and I don't mean fish or plankton or other small sea creatures, or anything like that. I'm just trying to demonstrate what I mean, by means of what you might call hyperbole, or an exaggeration— and yet so many opera singers, to return to my original thought, seem to believe that in order to perform to their maximum potential, they must correspondingly achieve their maximum girth, weight, and density, whereas in reality, if they would go a little easier on the pasta dishes and instead indulge more often in fresh fruit, such as strawberries or— _

"This isn't a diet book we're writing here," interrupted Lonny. "Can we please keep things on the right subject?"

Amber eyes narrowed at her thoughtfully. "You realize, mademoiselle, that by judicious application in your life of the advice I was just dispensing, you too could benefit in the way of health."

"You realize, monsieur," Lonny answered, rolling her eyes, "that by judicious use of the telephone, you could be in jail?"

"All I am saying is, you could stand to lose a few excess pounds."

"And I am saying, _Erik_, shut up. I'm not going to take dieting advice from an immortal, not-quite-fictional corpse who probably lived on rats the whole time he was under the opera house."

"I did _not_ live on rats!" Erik exploded, slamming a fist down on her bedspread. The effect was lost somewhat as it merely bounced a few times before landing back in his lap, for Lonny had a very buoyant mattress. "I'm _French_!"

"E_xac_tly," said Lonny smugly, turning back to the computer. Erik breathed heavily for a few minutes.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "I would ask you to be careful of the things you say. Especially I would request that you do not insult my country."

"Well, since you're being nice about it—"

"Believe me, Lonny, 'being nice' is nothing but a prelude to my real reaction. One which you will not much like."

"Fair enough," said Lonny thoughtfully. True, Erik had said he didn't want to kill her because he felt obligated to her— but the act of harboring a fugitive on the run for murder was rather stupid in itself, and obligation tended only to go so far. "Shall we go on?"

_She was beautiful, of course— such a lovely child. I have not seen her equal before or since. But her voice— oh, her voice! A cool and liquid joy, pooling deep in my heart. The lure of training her, of allowing her to reach her full potential, was irresistible. And so I became her tutor, and she my student— every night we sang, eyes wide open, but only I could see— _

He was getting worked up, Lonny could tell. Again his hands clenched convulsively into fists, only to release and twine fingers around each other like discontented snakes. She stopped typing and shoved her chair away from the desk decisively.

"Time for a break," she announced. "Hungry?"

He turned sullen eyes on her.

"You told me that recounting my tale would bring her back," he said softly.

"Maybe," contradicted Lonny. "I said maybe. I make no guarantees. Messing around with reality is an uncertain business at best. I can't predict the future, Erik, I wish I could but I can't."

"You don't know if she'll ever come back," he said. There was a strange pain in his voice that made Lonny, unexpectedly, want to cry. He put a hand to his mask as though feeling a scar, and sighed noisily. "I suppose we may take a break. Check if there are any more reviews."

She remained staring at him a moment longer, shaking her head slightly, utterly amazed at how quickly he would go from pathetically dramatic to commanding and slightly absurd. She muttered something.

"What was that?" he asked sharply, his ears only having caught something about 'the nature of the beast' but she wouldn't answer him. He scooted back on the bed, settling his thin shoulders in something approaching his normal elegance of movement, though he was clearly tired. Talking so much was an effort— at least, talking so much without the random application of italics.

"Two reviews," Lonny called, and tried to hide the fact that she was rather excited about this. She didn't do very well. Erik shoved forward again, his feet hitting the floor with a thump, and bent over her shoulder. He read the screen avidly.

Lonny winced in anticipation.

There was a long pause as Erik's mental translator kicked in.

Finally he said, "It is _not_ improbable and poorly thought out!"

"Its called a flame," said Lonny. "Well, okay, not exactly a flame. Its called a critical assessment. This—" She opened the other review. "_This _is a flame."

She couldn't tell on account of the mask, but looking at the skin of Erik's throat, she thought he might have paled a little.

"What do they mean, 'get a real job and quit boring us with this crap, you insufferable moron'?"

"They mean pretty much what they say," said Lonny quietly. She watched as he settled back on the bed, his knees drawn together and his hands placed carefully atop them. "I'm really sorry," she tried to placate him. "It happens sometimes, you know. Even to the best written fanfic. I mean, look at 'Drastic Measures'. Phantomisa's a fantastic authoress, and she's getting ripped all over the place by people who just don't understand Erik's deep and serious need to get naked with Ariana. I mean, its tragic, really. I probably shouldn't have brought that up, should I?"

"It matters not," muttered Erik. "My honor has been besmirched so, that I wonder I have any left."

"Oh but you do!" enthused Lonny. "When Ariana's husband comes down to confront you and catches you two in bed, you get out from under the sheets and fight! Naked!"

She was trapped like a butterfly in the heat of the amber gaze, and gulped nervously.

"Well, _I_ appreciated it," she finally managed.

Erik sighed and flopped back on the bed. At least, he would have but for a slight miscalculation which caused him to hit his head rather hard on the wall first.

Lonny noted with sigh of regret that, not for the first time, she had the wrong Phantom passed out in her bedroom.


	14. Lethal Soup and Just Press Play

Chapter Fourteen: Lethal Soup and Just Press Play

She watched him eat, eyes taking in every detail avidly. He wasn't immune to her stare, of course, and though he tried gamely to ignore it, eventually he felt something must be said.

"Why are you staring at me?" he demanded. "I feel positively violated."

"Well, at least its positive," said Lonny philosophically. "It could be quite a negative experience."

He laid his spoon down and narrowed his eyes at her till she wilted slightly. "I'm sorry," she said, "I just don't know that I've ever seen someone slurp soup with such wild abandon before."

He snorted and picked the spoon up again. "Normally, I will have you know, I am quite a polite eater— when I partake of a meal at all, which is not often— but I confess to feeling quite hungry at the moment. I trust you will excuse me."

"—oh, sure," said Lonny eventually. "I have a present for you."

"Oh, goodie," Erik muttered acidly.

"We're going to have a little bit of music. And I'm going to take a look at the book— I mean, your book. We're going to have a little Phantom-fest. Or phest, if you like. And I promise not to refer to Gerry. Except right then, when I was making the promise about not mentioning him. And then. Sorry." She grinned at him and ducked out of the room while he grumbled and continued to slurp his soup. There was something different about this soup, anyway— something very strange. He couldn't quite place it.

Oh yes. That was it.

It was utterly nasty.

She passed the door again in her quest for the book and other things, and he bellowed to her, "What in God's name is this?"

"Campbells. Campbells Cream of— Something Or Other. Better not to think about it."

"It's revolting and I'll not eat it again!"

"You were enjoying it before you slowed down enough to taste it," she called, passing back the other way.

"Its positively lethal," he said firmly, and shoved the (now empty) bowl away from him. "Have you any of that Hamburger Helper? It would appease my tastebuds to a certain degree."

"You're pathetic," Lonny trilled, waltzing back into the room with the book, which she plunked down on the table in front of him. He leaned over to regard it seriously and she waited for his approval.

"Abridged," he said, and sniffed in distaste.

"The other copy weighs ten pounds," she whined.

"It must be large print; it is not that long a book. To abridge it is not merely a travesty, it is absurd."

"Well, that's life for ya," she said philosophically, and settled back down across from him. She picked up the book and frowned at it thoughtfully. "I guess its good, huh?"

"Of course its good," said Erik, poking at his soup bowl with a spoon. "Why would I be in a book that wasn't good? It doesn't make the least bit of sense, and if nothing else I like to think I make sense."

There was a pause while they both thought this over.

They reached a mutual conclusion that caused them both to shake their head.

"At any rate," Erik went on, "it is a good book and I am insulted that you have not read it before now."

"I didn't know you before now."

"Don't you put any importance on literature at all?" he inquired, leaning forward and fixing her with an inquiring yellow eye.

"I like _People_ magazine," she demurred, and shrugged slightly. The shrug turned into a laugh at the expression on his face. "What?"

"That— person whom they let portray my character is in that particular publication every so often."

"You mean you've read it?" Lonny guffawed; she got rather a lot of enjoyment out of this. "The Phantom of the Opera reads _People _magazine! That's _classic_!"

"I've flipped through it once or twice," said Erik sullenly. "At doctor's offices. Outdated copies. You promised me music. But then, you promise me many things."

Lonny sobered, gradually. "I try not to promise anything I can't deliver," she said. "I don't always succeed, but I do _try_." She pushed herself away from the table, laying the book down again, and held up a finger to indicate that Erik should wait a moment. Once more, she disappeared out of the room, leaving Erik to moodily contemplate the empty bowl and the forlorn book.

Eventually he shoved the bowl out of the way and drew the volume towards him. It was very small and rather dusty, so much so that when he blew on it a cloud arose and made him enter a violent coughing fit. Eyes watering, he smoothed one hand over the cover and opened it to the middle.

He read for a few moments; words that he had read a million times before, words that were committed to heart, but words that he never tired of hearing and could never quite bring himself to believe. His eyes focused on a passage that he'd always been particularly fond— and almost afraid— of.

"_If Erik were handsome, Christine— would you love him?"_

The words were Raoul's; the question was one that circled round and round in Erik's brain, endlessly and forever. He was lost in a reverie, and Lonny entered silently and watched him.

They remained motionless for some time; finally Erik looked up, and she found that he had been aware of her presence the whole time.

"Once you read it," he said, almost hesitantly, "I would like your opinion on one or two matters of interest."

"Certainly," said Lonny gravely, and beckoned him with her finger. "You have to be in the living room to hear this." He picked up the book and handed it to her, then followed her down the hallway to the living room, where she seated him on the mud-brown couch in front of a vast entertainment center. She glanced at him. "All set?"

He nodded, and looked baffled.

She hit a button, appropriately marked "Play."

The music that flooded the room is a bit controversial even now, and has given rise to endless discussions (between certain people, anyway) on its actual value. The most often used name for it is "pop opera" although in the circumstances "popera" would seem to be catchier, and certainly a little faster to say. Its divided the phan-camp into the groups of those who dislike it heartily, those who think it's the most incredible thing since American cheese, those who think its even worse than American cheese and should be done away with, those who think its not too bad but is certainly overrated, and those who think everyone else who disagrees with them are morons and should be shot immediately (there's bound to be a group like this in any community). It was, in short, Mr. Lloyd Webber's take on the story of the Phantom.

Erik looked like he was about to go into shock.

Lonny couldn't be certain if this was a good thing or a bad thing, so she left the music on and sat down with the book, muttering, "Only time will tell."


	15. Growths

Chapter Fifteen: Growths

Lonny paged through the book, noting in the back of her mind that it still smelled rather— well, new. As though it'd just been brought out of its Barnes and Nobles plastic bag (an environmental aberrance which she disapproved of) and dropped into her hands for consideration. It had never been read.

She'd always thought that unread books had an aura of silence, except this was far too hippy a belief for her to bandy about. And so she refrained from bandying, and kept it to herself.

She wondered if bandying was a word.

She glanced over at Erik. He looked shell-shocked, stupified, in a stupor, other things beginning with S— She cleared her throat.

"I don't suppose," she said, "if you know whether or not ban—"

His eyes darted to hers, glowing with an infernal light. She wasn't quite sure if it was anger or delight, and could only rely on her natural instincts. These proved to be, as he leapt from his chair, to fling the book at him and cover her head with her hands.

"Ow," remarked Erik, rubbing his chin where the volume had hit. He bent over to pick it up, patting it, smoothing it with his fingers. "You ought not to do such things with a book, you know. It is extremely disrespectful."

"Are you going to hit me?"

There was the sound of a quizzical expression in his voice. "Would you like me to?"

Slowly she removed her arms from over her head. "What do you think of the music?" she managed. "You looked kind of— um—"

"Stupified?" he filled in acidly. "Shell-shocked? Dumbfounded? Amazed? All of those and more, my dear. I cannot quite comprehend that my classic and time-worn tale has been enfolded in the arms of a pop-opera two-bit musician. I admit some of the beats are quite compelling, but really. Take this for instance—" He pointed a slightly quivering finger at the stereo as it erupted into the opening for the title song. Lonny thought longingly of the way the filmic version of Erik had pouted, quite duck-like, as he took the filmic version of Christine (who had unaccountably developed mascara that would rival Captain Jack Sparrow's: a thought that led to some interesting takes on the story in her fanfic-writer's mind) downwards to his lair.

"This," said Erik stridently, "is much more fitted to some disco king or other—"

—which in turn led, unfortunately, to another idea, about some Disco!Erik or something like that, though Lonny shook her head irritably to try and dislodge the offensive idea.

"—who is trying to impress his vixen with some randy display of John Travoltaness that would embarrass a brother!"

Lonny blinked.

"What?" she said.

"I am trying to tell you," said Erik, steelily, or rather, in the manner of something which is steely, "that this is far too modern for its intent."

"Well, not really," contradicted Lonny thoughtfully, "because, you know, it was written a long time ago."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, like in the 80s."

"Time is meaningless when one is immortal," said Erik promptly. "Apparently it is more effective to measure it by the offensiveness of the music."

"So you don't like it then."

"I never said that!"

Lonny sighed and took the book from him. "I'm having trouble," she said. "This is very confusing to me. From the beginning you're referred to as a corpse. Now, I don't think you're dead— at least, I hope you're not dead— because that'd be gross— you know— um, so I'm confused, basically."

Erik sighed heavily. "The author referred to me as a corpse, it is true. That is because of my figure."

Lonny raised her eyebrows. "What, like, your implants are collapsing—" She stopped when she saw his expression. "So you look dead. Underneath the mask?" Erik didn't look likely to reply to this, so she sighed and managed an apology. Still he remained brooding, and she stepped forward to look into his eyes; but they were closed. They remained like that for a long moment, and then Lonny said brightly, "Hey, did you know you've been reincarnated as a rock star? Its true. Its in a story I read. Its phantastic." The "ph" slipped neatly into place without her having to work at it; a true sign of a phanatical phan.

However, this didn't seem to make Erik all that perky. His eyes opened, but only to glare.

"This infernal messing about with my story!" he said. "From your blasted fanfiction, even to this— this—" He gestured wordlessly and yet irately at the still-playing stereo. "This amateur take on a classic love story—"

"What's classic about it?" said Lonny tiredly. "She went off with some other guy and you're left behind to rot."

This landed Erik in a fine, sullen mood. He stood, rather grandly, and moved off back towards her bedroom, leaving Lonny to stare at the stereo.

"Oh,_ fine_," she said at last, abandoning the book and following him. "I'm _sorry_—"

She found him waiting, arms folded impassively, beside the computer desk. "Shall we continue," he said, and it was not a request. Silently she sank into the seat and called up the word processor once more.

"But know this first," said Erik, disentangling one hand and wagging a finger in her face. "The most classic of love stories have more to them in the true telling. This is no romantic comedy, there are no happy endings. In life in general, there are no happy endings."

"You're from a book," Lonny muttered, stabbing at the keys.

"_I am the truth_," said Erik.

"And the way and the life?" returned the girl.

"There's no telling."

Lonny huffed and contented herself with humming the theme song from Corpse Bride. Partly to keep in mind what he had said about being called a corpse himself, but mostly to annoy him. A goal at which she succeeded in rare form. Erik dictated dryly for about ten minutes before he broke down and directed her angrily to stop, whereupon she switched over to humming the William Tell Overture, over and over and over and over. The main result of this was that the next chapter of Erik's autobiography went like this:

I cannot help but think about the way Christine was as a child, when I see her as an adult. True, she has grown, in some places more than others, but it is not proper for me to mention these, nor is it proper to dwell on them, and so I refrain from doing so. Much. The truth is that Christine seems insensate to her own beauty, a freshness that I cannot help but admire when I think of my own hideousness. Would that I too could be truly unaware of my own appearance! But then I suppose that I would be out and about in public, absentmindedly frightening children, had I no idea of what a horror I appear in the glass! Oh, the horror! Oh, the ugliness! But Christine, my Christine, has no such difficulties. She can gaze at herself in the mirror all she likes, and I am glad that she does, for the truth is that I've rigged up a sort of one-way-window contraption— do not ask me how, for I never reveal my sources, though I am grateful to the man at the hardware shoppe— and I too can gaze on her beauty, her perfection, her growths, as often as she _dear God in heaven, girl, stop that infernal noise!_

"What?" said Lonny innocently. "What, what was I doing? What?"

Erik scowled at her and stomped back upstairs. After a few minutes she grinned to herself, to hear the strident disco themes of_ The Phantom of the Opera _floating back down to her, underground.


	16. Tales of a Metronome

**Chapter Sixteen: Tales of a Metronome**

Lonny tapped at the keys for a moment, random instructions sent to the computer, instructions that read like this: Gerry Phantom is Gerik; Gerik is my boyfriend; Gerik is ma boi; Gerry is single and suddenly lives next door and likes younger women.

She had little idea of how true this was, exactly, and was thinking more along the lines of the computer suddenly gaining the ability to change reality. It was a lovely dream that she was having, sitting there with faraway eyes, and she wasn't aware that the music upstairs had stopped, because it had been replaced with something entirely different. Of course the sound was off; of course it was demonstrably not the pounding rhythm of, well, anything from the soundtrack. This was different, softer, quieter, colder, hungrier, a wild animal out in the winter and stalking prey. Love had nothing to do with it. Groping had no place in it.It wasn't likely there'd be any fantastic costumes half-falling off people during the singing of it, either.

Words? Were there even words?

Her brain had a subliminal conversation with itself, wrapped itself in circles, and the music played; the melody shattered and scattered and put itself back together again somewhere else, an unusual form of musical movement; this song was angry, the auditory equivalent of vehicular manslaughter. She shoved her chair away from the computer desk at the sound, and got to her feet at once.

"Erik! Stop massacreing the piano!"

He played on for a moment more, then she heard his voice floating down the stairway, somehow audible above the riproar that was the music though he wasn't shouting at all.

"Nonsense! One cannot massacre a single object; the very meaning of the word is reserved for a mass murder of the sort dreamed up by the early American settlers or modern American governments---"

"It frightens me!" she bellowed; she sat on the floor, abruptly, feeling as though the music was pounding her down, into the carpet, a relentless hammering on the top of her head that also assaulted her from all sides. She curled up, helplessly, and wrapped her arms around her head.

"It frightens me, as well," Erik's voice was not a comfort, under these situations, "the things people come up with. How horrible that there should even need to be a term for 'mass murder'. Not, I suppose, that I'm the most innocent person, the most justified person to complain, but in the case of my own massacre, every single one of them deserved it."

He played on, and the music was still an awful thing, a reminder of her early childhood nightmares, things that she thought she'd gotten past long ago. There were monsters in the closet, and dogs eating dogs, andskeletons dancinghorrible macabre dances, and her mother and her father_ doing it_. All sorts of things that lurk in the depths of human minds, things that must forcibly be put out of our heads in order that we may function at all, things that should only be in the minds of Presidents and psychopaths. A terrible weight. A terrible responsibility of madness.

He played for twenty minutes, at the end of which he smiled, dusted off his hands, and replaced the cover over the battered upright. Long ago, Lonny's mother had plucked out the notes to Auld Lang Syne and Greensleeves and the beginnings of Barry Manilow songs. _Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl, and she worked at the Copacabana..._ She only ever got the beginnings to these songs because her husband and her daughter would plead for mercy or threaten to leave her for good. Erik had no idea that the humble piano had been used for such an atrocious purpose; he only knew that it was badly in need of tuning, but nevertheless the beaten ivory under his fingers had felt good, smooth, right.

"Just some of my lighter pieces," he remarked to the room, and stood.

He found Lonny still curled in a fetal position, shaking and crying and not a little ashamed of it. She uncurled herself slowly and glared at him dolefully.

"Warn a girl the next time you're going to assault her senses with sounds of blood, devestation, war, and horror."

"What on earth did you expect me to play?" Erik asked, mildly surprised.

"You could have started with something easier and worked your way gradually downwards into that dank pit of your consciousness; why didn't you give the play songs a try?"

He glared. "I resent the suggestion. I resent the suggestion very much."

"Well, jeez. You're going to tell me you never play show tunes?"

"Yes. I'm going to tell you I never play show tunes."

"What about rock? Can you play Best of You? No, nevermind. Can you play, can you play um..." She searched her mind frantically for something a bit more likely. "Can you play Here Comes the Sun?"

He sighed heavily. "I am going to simply assume that you are unaware of the tactlessness of your suggestions."

"Oh, I'm not, really."

"I do not play rock. I do not play pop. I do not play jazz. I do not play country."

"Do you--"

"And I never, ever, under any circumstances, play Barry Manilow songs."

"Well, thank God for that," said Lonny, raising her arms to the sky. She was quiet for a moment, and wiped the last few tears away from her eyes. "I don't suppose you play love songs."

He regarded her for a bit, eyes direct and a bit frightening; she could not tell what, exactly, the expression in them meant, simply for lack of any other facial features to accompany it. She was young, and hadn't yet learned to read a person's thoughts through their eyes; she'd heard that they were the windows to the soul, and hadn't paid any attention to it apart from facetiously inquiring if that meant blind people were really boring, deep down.

"Yes," said Erik, finally. "Yes, I do, on occasion, play love songs. But," he added, lifting one finger as she opened her mouth to speak, "I do not play them upon request. I play them when the time is right, and when I am moved to such passion as needed to correctly present the music. The others, the dark songs, are never wrong. Always, underlying the eccentricities and trivialities of human existence, there is the pathos of the deep sorrow in the soul. If we did not smile, if we did not laugh, if we did not have to keep up a front, we should cry all the time. But love is different; it must be inspired. It must be called forth."

She looked at him through her fingers, as her hands were still over her face; her own sort of handmade, ha ha, handmade mask. He, though he had infinitely more experience reading the human face, could no more tell what she was thinking than she could tell from his.

"Alright," she said, "alright, well. I'll do my best."

Then she dropped her hands, and meandered back to the computer, and sat and got on with the business of writing, and he forgot to ask her what her best involved.


	17. Ten's Her Max, Really

**A/N: Jeez, okay, do I apologize for the years-long gap between updates or just skip immediately to crawling, moaning, and/or weeping?**

**Chapter Seventeen: Ten's Her Max, Really**

"How far had we got?"

"Er," said Erik, seating himself gingerly on the edge of her bed and looking simultaneously dubious and thoughtful. "I'm not entirely sure. Why don't I have a think on that and you— you check and see if there've been any more reviews, perchance."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Already? Jeez, Erik. I can't be checking my email every five seconds." Ten was her max, really.

"It has been more than five seconds. Check it."

She tapped at the keyboard impatiently, waiting for the satellite to catch up to the speed it was advertised as. Satellite seemed like it would be faster than it ever actually was, which rather baffled her. This was the future, right? So, not only were there no flying cars and Jetson rocket ships for easy interplanetary travel, she couldn't even rely on her own internet connection? Ridiculous.

"No. Nothing."

"Nothing?" His voice was steeply offended. "After all this time?"

"It really hasn't been all that long, Erik. Calm yourself." She placated him, both hands out, palms down. Erik eyed her icily.

"When someone tells me to _calm myself_, I get this terribly strong urge to plant barrels of gunpowder below the building and then blow it up."

"Now, don't get upset."

"And the only possible response to _Don't get upset _is to immediately punch someone in the nose. Aren't you pleased that I am restraining myself so well?"

"Jeez, you're mercurial." Lonny seemed to be less afraid of him than usual; which worried Erik, in a sense. Was he losing his touch? He tried a glower, but to no avail, as she was no longer looking at him.

"When someone refers to me as mercurial—" he started, over-emphasizing a bit and huffing breaths through his teeth.

"—you chop their heads off and stuff them up their noses?" filled in Lonny, attention on the computer screen. Erik narrowed his eyes.

"That makes no sense whatsoever."

She shrugged. "Phangirl. Where were we, anyway? If we don't get going, we'll never get this bloody thing done. No, wait. Here it is. We were talking about Christine." She did glance at him, then, eyes narrowed. "We do an awful lot of talking about Christine."

"Well, I am obsessed with her. It's perfectly understandable."

"Well, yeah, but— weren't you obsessed with anything else? As, like, a sort of break, every once in a while?"

Erik glared at the suggestion as though it stood between them waggling its ears and thumbing its nose.

"Are you obsessed with anything other than that infernal Gerry person? As a sort of break?"

Lonny hit the space bar twice, reflexively, and sat back. "Yeah, sure. Frequently. My affections wax and wane. That's sort of the definition of being a teenaged fangirl."

"Aha. Well." He snorted. "My affections are as unflinching as the sun, twice as hot and just as likely to burn. Perhaps that's the definition of being an Opera Ghost."

"Hey, I like that." She leapt eagerly forward to the keyboard again and her fingers went wild. "_Twice as hot and just as likely to burn_. Can I use it?"

"No!"

"I'll give you credit!"

"Whose story are we writing here, yours or mine?"

"I know which one _I'd_ rather read," said Lonny honestly. "But let's get back to working on yours, I guess. Right. Christine, Christine, Christine." She laced her fingers together and popped her knuckles. Erik winced. "Alright. We've done a lot of drooling about the diva. Shall we move on? When did Raoul enter the picture?"

There was a low growl from the side of the bed, and Lonny smiled— carefully, with only the side of her mouth that he couldn't see, just in case. She coughed, and did a string of at symbols for aesthetic value. She liked the at symbol.

"You know, regardless of what you think of him— and what_ I _think of him, honestly, because _fop_ just doesn't go far enough sometimes, sometimes you have to resort to_ Mr. Fop Foppo Fopperson from Fopville, Foppovia, France_— he does have a kind of specialized value."

The growl increased and turned into a bit of a rumble.

"Let me explain, for Pete's sake! It's all about conflict. There needed to be conflict in your story. It was too— smooth."

The growl that had turned into a rumble turned into a laugh instead, though it sounded like it was in spite of himself. Erik groaned slightly as his ribs ached; he wasn't used to laughing much, these days. The time for maniacal chuckles had disappeared with the advent of the internal combustion engine; now, presumably, if someone heard him doing his famous cackle he'd most likely be put on some kind of medication. Insanity just wasn't in vogue anymore.

"My story was too smooth?" he repeated, disbelievingly. "Too— too simple, perhaps? Uncomplicated? Too happy, is that what you're implying, hmm? No conflict! Good God. Because everyone knows the ending of the tale of the Opera Ghost was going to be uplifting, till that boy came in."

"Well," said Lonny, with a shrug, and Erik stopped to think about it. Then thought about it a little more. He stood, abruptly, mouth agape; then subsided back onto the bed, making it creak.

"— do you really think so?"

She shrugged again. "I think it's possible. I mean, Christine didn't know you were the Opera Ghost till Raoul showed up. I think maybe taking her down and crawling around sobbing and kissing her dress was— an error in judgement, maybe? But you were panicked, right? This good-looking dude had suddenly showed up, lookin' all fine in his ponytail or whatever, flashing a billfold and shiny teeth this way and that, presuming on a childhood friendship and thinking saving someone's scarf is a justifiable basis for a serious romance, years later. I mean, seriously. I'm probably getting versions mixed up now. I don't care, the point still stands. Would you have done things the same way if he hadn't shown up?"

Erik was sunk deep in thought, and it was only with a concerted effort that he clambered his way back up to rational conversation again.

"I— don't know."

Which was to be expected, really, Lonny thought— he was nuts, after all, poor guy. Nutsiness just wasn't as _cool_ as it had been, back then. She thought it was worth a kindly smile, anyway, and gave him one.

"Maybe this story will help you to figure it out, huh?"

"Perhaps," mused Erik. "Yes. Let's move on. There are several main points I wish to address, among them the absolutely atrocious manner in which the Opera House was maintained—"

"Erik— let's stick to things that will actually interest the reader, not make them want to hulk-smash a hole in their laptops, okay?"

He gave a long-suffering sigh and began to narrate an occurrence in which La Carlotta had slipped and fallen in the lavatory. Due to poor maintenance. It was very interesting.

Lonny was doing a final edit before posting the next chapter when he called her name tentatively. She turned to see his brow was furrowed.

"—who is Pete?"


	18. Where We Were Going With This

**A/N: Keeping up with updating, in the hopes that the stories I've been reading (some of which have been languishing for years) will somehow magically gain updates by osmosis. Also, pay no attention to the retcon behind the curtain.**

**Chapter Eighteen: Where We Were Going With This**

Somewhere along the line Erik seemed to have developed a migraine, which made his already mercurial temper predictably unpredictable. This was not as much of a contradiction in terms as it seemed; after all, Lonny reasoned, when it came to the old O. G., you never knew where you stood, or even if you were standing, but at least _never_ was a solid enough concept.

She said, "I think we should work up an outline. You know. To prevent distractions."

"I think you should crawl in a hole and die." Erik's voice was muffled by the pillow he held tightly over his face. She'd worried briefly about the possibility that he might accidentally asphyxiate himself; then realized he had plenty of experience with asphyxiation, accidental and otherwise, and if she _did _wake up to a corpsified corpse-face one of these days, it would be purely by design.

"I think you need some aspirin."

"I think the aspirin should be chopped into tiny pieces and shot into space."

Lonny sighed. "Would you like me to get my mom's migraine pills? I know where they are."

"I would like you, your mother, and your mother's pills to be kidnapped in a foreign country and sold as firestarters."

Predictably unpredictable. Just that.

She slapped her hands on her knees and stood up. "Welp, as fun as this is— and it's like the verbal equivalent of a roller coaster, believe me, I'd be screaming with joy if I didn't feel like ralphing my cotton candy all over the carpet—"

Erik groaned and curled slightly underneath the pillow. Lonny took pity on him.

"I'll be upstairs," she said, modifying her voice to sound soft and melodious. Soft she could manage; melodious not so much. She tried drawing the curtain over her window softly and melodiously, too, but there was a violent squeak from the rings and a muttered death threat from beneath the pillow. In the darkened basement room, she stopped for a minute and watched the form on the bed, holding her breath.

With the full-face mask hidden, he was just a man. A man stretched out on her bed where no man should be; a man dressed in her father's clothing, admittedly, but just a man all the same.

She snagged her notebook on the way up the stairs. After a moment, she came back for a handful of pens as well. No use inviting trouble, after all. Suppose some of them didn't work? Pens were social creatures, anyway, just like humans.

Well. Just like some humans.

She arranged herself on the kitchen table, noting from the window that the day seemed to be trickling by. All this writing, singing, music-listening, Andrew-Lloyd-Webber-bashing, cereal-eating, phic-writing, stair-ascending and basement-going, and it was only just after three. That was phantas— _fan_tastic, she corrected the thought, severely. There was such a thing as taking a joke too far.

She assumed.

After staring at the paper for a moment, she got up from the table and retrieved the copy of Leroux's novel from the living room. She set it down in front of her like a talisman, and leaned her chin in her right hand, giving a pen staccato taps on the paper. The cover— she'd just noticed— was a blonde girl, facing the reader; just in front of her, kissing-close, the back of a man's head. His hand was raised, holding the mask to the top of his head— a black mask, full face. He was, she realized, kissing the girl— Christine Daae, one was forced to presume— on the forehead.

Forehead kisses?

"Forehead kisses? In _my_ fandom?" she demanded of the novel. "Where's the _steam_, Lee-roo? Where's the groping sessions in the cellar? Where's the collapsible costume? Where's the _sex_, Lee-roo?" She widened her eyes manically, raising her eyebrows nearly to her hairline. Embarrassment came quickly enough; she snorted a laugh at herself and patted the book. "Only kidding. Just kidding, I swear."

Maybe it was like horror. She backed that thought up: it _was_ like horror, because apparently the original novel had been heavy on the screams for its time. Now it held a sort of misty, creepy quality, and she could see reading it in a graveyard for the proper atmosphere. She picked it up and thumbed through it— very much like horror. The less you show, the more tension you build. It was the tension that delivered, not the reveal.

It must work that way for romance, too. She flipped to the back of the book.

_Then Christine kissed me, for the first time, herself, here, on the forehead— don't look, daroga!— here, on the forehead... on my forehead, mine— _

She shivered, just a little.

Of _course_ it worked that way for romance. She knew from personal experience, didn't she? Well, not _personal_ personal experience. Personal experience with phanfic. Tension was why there were so many stories out there that went on for eight hundred chapters, subsisting on lovingly-written stolen kisses and unrealistic scenarios involving inadvertent nudity, stopping only for the all-encompassing dream sequence—

She really should loathe dream sequences, she thought, but she was too busy loving them and didn't have enough time for both.

There was a lesson in there, somewhere, but with the Phantom of the Opera sleeping off a headache in her room, she didn't feel like delving for it. Instead, under the watchful eye of the source material, she set to sketching an outline. She'd been forcefully educated in them during English class, over the years, but hadn't really found much call for them in fanfiction. Everybody already knew the story, anyway.

I. Disfigured genius lives under Opera Populaire.

a. But it isn't the Opera Populaire.

b. It's something Frencher.

II. Beautiful orphan Christine Daae moves into Opera Not-Populaire.

a. Except she didn't really, did she? She lived somewhere else.

III. Disfigured genius falls in love with beautiful orphan, especially her abundant chocolate curls and her candy-kissed doe-eyes.

a. Perhaps he was craving sugar.

b. Except she was really blonde, wasn't she.

c. And Erik doesn't strike me as much of a sugar addict.

d. Wouldn't he be fun if he was hyper?

e. —phic idea?

f. It's been done.

Sensing that her outline was beginning to devolve into a pointless, written discussion with herself, she laid the pen down carefully and sent another searching glance at the book. She felt as though she should look for its approval; which, she was fairly certain, she would not receive. Oh well. Life was made of disappointments.

Like, for instance, the vague sense of disappointment she felt that her favorite version of the story seemed to have got so many things wrong. It made her feel disloyal, somehow, but the fact remained that the Phantom's name was _not_ "The Phantom," that he did _not_ wear a half-mask, and that his terrible secret did _not_ involve an injudicious lack of sunscreen. And the soul-carving terror that Erik was capable of making her feel, if he really put his mind to it, was how he was meant to be. All the time. The Opera Ghost really existed; he was completely nuts and hiding out in her bedroom. How was she meant to feel about that, now that she was realizing the truth?

Betrayed, she thought, but that didn't begin to cover it. She felt inexplicably irate.

"Someone really should have warned me about this," she told the novel, which said nothing in return. "I'm just a poor innocent phangirl. Well, as innocent as you can be when you see double entendres everywhere. A poor, mildly corrupted phangirl. What, it's _my_ fault that I never read the source material?"

The book seemed to look at her in disbelief. Lonny thumped her forehead with the heel of her hand.

"Of _course_ it is," she said, rolling her eyes. "Jeez. Forehead kisses. Who knew."

The outline mocked her. Her English teacher would have failed her without a second thought. What was she doing, anyway? Finding meaning in small things, picking the story apart to try and put it back together differently, to give it another ending—

She slumped against the table abruptly, boneless.

"To give it another ending," she murmured.

"Mmph," said Erik indistinctly, behind her. Distracted by her own wordiness, she hadn't heard him mounting the stairs. _Mounting the stairs_, she repeated to herself, and startled herself with a giggle. Okay, slightly more than mildly corrupted, then.

"How's the head?"

"Hideous," muttered Erik, taking a seat across from her. His hand covered half the mask, and one visible eye glared yellowly at her.

"I said head, not face," said Lonny calmly. The glare went on, stretching to the point where it should have been legally registered as a deadly weapon. "You're good at that, aren't you? Making someone feel like they should just go jump off a building and get it over with. All for the sake of a jokey comment or two."

"Or three, or four," said Erik tightly.

"Hey, you're always lamenting your face in this." She brandished the novel at him. "Either that, or going on about what a Don Juan you are. Honestly, make up your mind." The glare hurt, now, and she raised both hands to placate him. "Alright, alright! I'll shut up. Just let me say this."

"There's a contradiction—"

"I've come to a realization. About your story."

Erik sighed, and pressed his stick-fingers through the eyeholes of the mask, pressing on his lids. "What?" came from behind his hands, long-suffering and muffled.

"We need to tell the truth," said Lonny steadily. "It's more than what you've said. Everybody knows the story. Everybody wants to write a different ending to it. But that's not the point, is it?"

"And what is the point, pray tell?"

Her grin was maddening.

"It hasn't ended yet," she said. Erik slid his hands down his face halfway and eyed her narrowly over the tips of his fingers.

"Really, child, cryptic statements at a time like this seem nothing more than outright cruelty."

"Oh, tell me how you really feel."

"You are grating on my nerves as though they were cheddar."

Lonny laughed. "Calm down, Phantom-boy."

"_Phantom-boy?_"

"I'm going to get my mom's pills. Not the birth control ones, either, though I did think about it. Just hold your horses. Fine or otherwise, doesn't matter. I take these little references where I can get them, you know—" Her voice trailed off as she left the room, still rambling. Alone at the dining table, Erik cursed his head, cursed the computer which seemed to have made the ache worse, cursed his wobbly vision, cursed the dancing grain of the table beneath his fingers, cursed his fingers—

He'd soundly cursed nearly everything he could think of when it occurred to him that, thus far, his irritating young helper had somehow remained obscenity-free. It was startling, to say the least, and he held his tongue for a moment while he considered the implications of this.

No, no, he thought, it meant nothing.

Well, she was helping him. Sort of.

No, but he could curse her anytime he wanted to. It was just that she was such an easy target, and offered him so many things to get really riled up about. There was no fun in it.

And she had fed him, and clothed him.

Which meant nothing. Madame Giry had, once or twice over the years, done the same. He'd cursed her, too, when she was remiss in her duties or slipped up and brought him white wine when he'd requested red.

No, he decided, simply because he had not cursed young Lonny did not mean that he was grateful. He tolerated her, to be sure. That was the extent of it.

And now here she was, rattling infernal pills at him in some sort of hell-bottle.

"Stop rattling those infernal pills in that hell-bottle!" he said, in fact. Lonny kept on grinning.

"Bottled hell, now there's a concept," she said. "Hold on. I'll get you some water."

Erik picked up the pills and eyed them carefully. "What will they do to me?"

"Cure the ugly," said Lonny solemnly, then flinched. "Alright! Alright! Stop glaring! Turn it off! I'll stop!"

And _then_ he cursed her, but it was under his breath, and mumbled, and mostly obscured by the pills.


	19. Meta and Potatoes

**Chapter Nineteen: Meta and Potatoes**

The headache had eased, and in its place, Lonny was developing habits that annoyed Erik exceedingly; that is, in addition to the habits she'd _already_ had which had irritated him to no end. The two combined threatened to drive him to distraction, and it was to the oblivious phangirl's advantage that Erik had left his Punjab lasso behind long ago.

Now, she'd started following him around narrating everything he did. This wouldn't have bothered him quite so badly if it weren't for the fact that her spoken prose was biliously purple. She seemed to attach some arcane significance to everything he did, rendering his trip to the restroom deep and Freudian.

He decided to stay in there longer than was absolutely necessary, and only emerged when he heard her mutter something about his subconscious desire to return to the womb.

He whipped the door open.

"_What_ was that?"

She was sitting on the hallway floor, back against the wall; she grinned up at him sheepishly. "I thought about being a psychologist," she said.

"Apropos of little." He tightened his grip on the doorknob.

"Well, mental health just didn't take."

Erik snorted. "A lucky break for the rest of humanity, then."

"Oh, probably," she agreed cheerfully, and pushed herself to her feet, holding on to the wall for support. "Anyway._ He stood in the doorway, oozing deadly charm as though it were pus from a full-body wound_."

"That's disgusting," snapped Erik.

"_Absolutely outraged, contempt caused him to vibrate as though he ran on batteries_."

"That's _worse_. Why do you continue to plague me, girl? Are not your cryptic remarks bad enough? Why are you following me around adding dialogue tags and terrible analogies to everything I say and do? Rest assured, I am aware of your limited writing skills. There is no need to prove anything to me."

"_He orated, drawing himself up regally_," said Lonny. She winced briefly at the look he gave her, and realized that as discretion is the better part of valor, so explanation is the better part of not-being-throttled. "It's just that I've been thinking."

"A rare enough occurrence, I imagine. Shall I order a commemorative plaque?"

"Oh, go plaque yourself," said Lonny, pleasantly enough. "Listen to me for a minute. It's just like I said. Your story's not over yet, right? You're still here, right?"

She _had_ said that, Erik realized, though he was loathe to agree with her. Things were so much easier when he could view her as a mere dispensary of pills. As soon as he was required to actually remember everything that spouted out of her mouth—

"Possibly," he admitted.

Her eyes sharpened. "Possibly what?"

"Possibly all of that. Your point?"

She dropped her arms down by her sides. "You can be so rude, you know that?"

"You're hardly a paragon of polite upbringing yourself, young woman. Get on with it."

"Is it the post-migraine malaise? It happens to my mom, too. Do you need to take another nap? I can wait."

"Lonny," Erik forced out through gritted teeth, as patiently as possible, "would you just tell me what you're going on about without constantly being sidetracked? I am doing you the great honor of assuming there's something important beneath all your blathering. Please." A breath, so quiet as to be nearly inaudible. "Please do not disappoint me."

"Let's go sit back down," she said. "I don't want to just stand here outside the bathroom all afternoon."

Fuming, he followed her back to the dining room, where she settled into her chair again. Rather than her usual smile— the obnoxiously cheerful smile of a chronic ignoramus, he thought— her face was settled in serious lines. He was a bit disturbed to discover that, on the whole, he preferred the smile. Serious did not suit Lonny at all; her chin was too round for it to turn out well, and it threw her off-kilter.

She folded her hands in front of her.

"Everyone keeps going back," she said. "If I know my phanfic— and let me tell you, I know my phanfic— no one tells the story as it really is. I mean, they either tell the same old, same old— you know, masked musical genius, falls in love, soppy Vicomte, chandelier, blah blah. Everyone knows it backwards and forwards. Even if it's technically AU, it still follows the pattern. So it's either that, or it's some sequel that may or may not involve Christine coming to her senses and escaping an abusive Raoul to return to you and live in wedded, damp bliss beneath the Opera House to the end of your unnaturally-long lives." She frowned slightly. "Though, not as unnaturally long as it naturally turns out to be, which is— odd, to say the least."

"I have found this to be the case," Erik agreed. "Let's take it as read."

"Okay. Well. It's not like no one knows that you got brought into real life. I mean, I didn't know it, I guess— but my mom did. Which practically counts as me knowing. It maybe wasn't reported on in all the most reputable news sources, but I'm almost certain it showed up in the _Enquirer_."

She jumped when Erik growled.

"They offered me ten thousand dollars for an exclusive photo," he said. She raised her eyebrows.

"Ten thousand? Jeez. I'd be all over that."

"_Without_ my mask."

"Oh." She paused, thoughtfully. "Well, I'd probably still be all over that, but hey. I am not you. You are not me. We are not each other." An impatient gesture startled her out of redundancies; she carried on. "So some people know that you're still around. It's a fact. Yet. Not one story I've seen has speculated on your life now; no one writes about what you're doing. Isn't that weird?"

"No," said Erik, and spread his hands on the table. "No, it is not weird. I'm real. I've been brought, as you say, to real life. Who writes stories about people in real life without express permission?"

Lonny snorted. "Oh, please. Don't tell me I have to introduce you to RPF."

"I cannot stand any more acronyms. Please don't."

"Let's just say that doesn't really stop people, okay? Seriously, draw a line for fangirls, and in ten minutes it'll just be a memory. Won't even show in the rearview. That's not my point. My point is, no one tells stories about you now. They're all concerned with the past. We need to put that behind us. Not to make a Lion King reference, or anything."

She waited for a quizzical glance from Erik, but received only an impassive stare.

"Don't tell me you actually watch Disney movies."

"Alright," said Erik. "I won't."

Lonny eyed him skeptically for a moment, then shook her head and resolved to move on. Clearly, that way lay only madness. She was close enough to it with Erik sitting all phantomy across from her. She didn't need to sign her own order of commitment by imagining him sprawled on a couch singing along with Timon and Pumbaa.

_Or Scar. Oh my god. He would sound so natural singing along with Scar._

The next thing she knew, Erik was leaning over her, a strange variety of concern lighting his yellow eyes.

"Are you alright?"

"Whurr," said Lonny. "My— tongue feels really weird."

"You leapt up and started running in circles laughing like a maniac," Erik told her. "Then you ate six pickles, which may account for your tongue."

She appeared to have passed out atop the kitchen table, as well. She sat up and looked around her with a deep sigh.

"Madness," she said. "I knew it."

"Should I even ask?"

"Oh, probably not." She scrambled down, using his unwilling arm for assistance, and plopped into her seat once more. "Where was I? Oh yes. Writing. Writing things that are actually happening. Erik, we need to write about your present, not your past. Only by writing about your present can we move on to the future. Wow. That was deep. Wasn't that deep?" She got nothing from him. She settled for repeating herself. "I think that was deep. That was like Karate Kid deep."

Erik heaved a sigh.

"And somehow in this turmoil of nonsensical thought you've reached the conclusion that narrating my every action will somehow lead Christine into the land of reality?"

She blinked at him. "Did I say that?"

"In so many words, yes. While you were incapacitated. You also said it in limerick, which makes me wonder why I never thought to rhyme _reality_ with _causality_ and _hilarity_. Oh, yes, now I know. Because _it makes absolutely no sense_."

Lonny slapped her palm on the table, then winced.

"Right on," she said. "Write on, even. We've got a story to tell, Erik, and it's going to be all the harder because we won't be able to make bits of it up. We're going to write about your life in the here and now. We're going to speculate on the future. We're going to bring Christine to the land of the living, which rhymes with _hand of the giving_, curiously enough. No matter. Let's rock."

She got the impression that behind the mask there was a deeply furrowed brow.

"I thought we were going to write."

"I'll lead the way," Lonny sang, leaping to her feet and suiting action to word. He followed her down the steps warily, only wincing slightly when she was unable to escape the call of tradition and warbled, "Down once moooooooore to the dungeon of my blaaaaack de-spaaaaaaair—"

She shut up, at least momentarily, once she was seated again before the computer, fingers poised over the keys, eyes fixed on him. Erik subsided onto her bed, and put his hands on his knees.

He cleared his throat.

"Do you think we'll get many reviews?"

"Shhh," she said. "I'm thinking. How does one start the true, true story of the Phantom of the Opera in modern times? How does one encompass the scope of such epic epicness?"

"Hopefully with a better turn of phrase than _epic epicness_."

"Shhh," she said again, and turned to the screen.

Her finger moved, and having writ, there on the screen was the sentence:

_The impossible happened._

She half-turned her head to look at him for a reaction, but Erik's glowing eyes were fixed on the words; his fingers hovered in the air momentarily before settling thoughtfully on his lips.

At length, he spoke.

"How deliciously meta," he said.

Lonny beamed at him. "I have never felt more proud in my life," she said. "You said _meta_."


	20. Eighty Seven Legs

**Chapter Twenty: Eighty-Seven Legs**

"So," said Lonny conversationally, dropping the syllable into the silence between them like a pearl into a pool, or possibly like a rock through a picture window, "did you ever get the feeling that you were going in circles? And I don't mean like on a merry-go-round, where you feel like you're going in circles because you are actually going in circles. Actually. I mean, like you're spinning around and the world is standing still." She frowned thoughtfully. "No, or, wait. Maybe it's the other way around. You're standing perfectly still, and the world is whirling. That would be difficult to say three times fast, huh? Or maybe you're walking through the world, the wrong way, and you keep trying to find your way to the McDonalds on Les Halles Avenue and instead you just keep taking the right-hand sidewalk on Buenaventura in the hopes four wrongs will make a right, and then they don't, so you just keep walking and being eternally hungry for a Big Mac."

"Forget politicians," said Erik wearily. "The word _filibuster_ was invented for people like you."

"For people like me, or _by_ people like me?" She glanced over her shoulder and squinted at him in the dimness of her room. "That's an important distinction."

Erik was hovering at the edge of explaining that her continued existence was also an important distinction, and she should take care not to push him too far, when Lonny shrieked a high note that would have done an Angel of Music proud, if it hadn't been so flat. She leapt sideways with the acrobatic grace of a salmon during spawning season, flopped onto the maroon carpeting and made swimming motions. Erik was so entranced by their apparent shared aquatic inspiration that he didn't notice her kick over the chair till it landed on him.

Lonny looked up, and immediately flung her arms over her eyes.

"Don't hit me!"

He hadn't been aware of rising from his seat on her bed, or bending over her, but here he was, eyes glowing behind his mask like some sort of— phantasm. No wonder the girl was frightened.

Fright didn't keep her from babbling, though. Erik sank back onto the bed, resigned.

"Or punjab me, or strangle me, or, or, shiv me, or dirk me, or those other things that that one kid that takes sword-fighting lessons is always going on about, I forget what they are, but they sound unpleasant. I didn't mean to kick a chair at you!"

"I know. It startled me, is all." Erik bent to pick up the chair, and righted it carefully. "I was lost in a reverie. I wasn't paying attention."

"You were thinking about Christine, right? You get this lovesick look in your eye, like a puppy that lost its bone underneath the couch and walks around whining at everyone till someone gets it for him."

He shifted his weight and she flung her arms over her face again.

"I take it back! Sorry."

"Actually," said Erik drily, "your running off at the mouth and sudden leap into the air sent my mind on a bit of a nature walk, I must say. What prompted that sudden panic?"

"Spider," said Lonny shortly, clambering back onto the chair and swinging her feet. "Biggest friggin' thing I've seen in my life. It was the size of my head. It was the size of _your_ head. It had eighty seven legs."

"You had time to count, I see."

"I have a photographic memory."

"Oh? You never said."

"I don't like to brag." They sat for a moment and danced around the fact that she had freaked out over a harmless, if hairy and many-legged, creature, when the most dangerous and— according to all reports— hideous man she was ever likely to meet was currently sitting, arms folded, on her bed. There was a lesson there, somewhere, Lonny thought, but it wasn't one she liked.

Erik cleared his throat, and she gave an anticipatory wince.

"You were saying, about going in circles?"

"Oh! What was I talking about? I remember. I mean, so I'm writing the things that have happened between us— no one's going to ever believe me, you know— and I'm basically all caught up to where I can start introducing Christine into the story. Which is all well and good, it's just— everything feels redundant. It feels like the shell of reality. And a little bit like, if we turned to the left all of a sudden, we'd see it all happening again." They turned to the left, simultaneously. Nothing but the empty space of her basement room, and the wall with her father's red Gibson hung on it. Lonny gave a little shiver. "It's ridiculous. I know. But I can't help how I feel."

"No one expects you to." Erik's voice was, momentarily, surprisingly gentle. Lonny hung her head.

"Yeah, but I don't want it to feel that way. If it feels like that to me, and I'm writing it, how's it going to feel to people who read it for the first time? What am I supposed to do?"

"What I want to know is, why do you start off so many chapters with meaningless monologuing?"

"Ohhhh," said Lonny, and brightened up considerably. "I'll put that in. Breaking the fourth wall like a wrecking ball. Very _Twin Peaks,_ I like it."

Erik waved a hand at her. "That isn't what I meant."

"Oh, but you said it, so it's going in." Her fingers tapped busily at the keyboard. "This is the longest day ever, you know?" she told the screen. "It's like a time warp. A worm hole. It's like Star Trek, is what I'm saying. Did you watch Star Trek? Am I getting too pop culture for you?"

Erik shifted uncomfortably.

"That means yes, right?"

"I watched the original series," he said.

"You identified with Spock, am I right?"

"Stop trying to distract me. _Are_ you ready to put Christine in?"

He was nervous. She was nervous. She stopped typing and turned to look at him, and they reflected nerves back at each other like an indoor pool with a mirrored ceiling. Endless nerves. It was enough to chill the bone marrow of the soul. It was like being intimately familiar with the adult male inside the Barney suit. It was like wearing a grinning plastic mask of George Bush to a bar mitzvah.

"What if this works?" she whispered.

"What if it doesn't," said Erik.

"Don't be disappointed."

"I won't." He was a fantastic liar. He had that talent going for him, at least. But Lonny looked at him sideways like he had a tell, like she could see the words he hadn't said sitting uncurled and invisible in the air between them. She heaved a sigh.

"I just know I'm going to end this adventure by getting punjabbed."

"Don't tempt me," grunted Erik. Lonny had turned her face away, but he could see a sidelong slice of her grin, bluelit by the computer screen. "How will you introduce her?"

"We can go ideal, or we can go realistic."

"Whichever is more likely to work."

"That's a tough call, mister. Never mind that the line between 'ideal' and 'real' is pretty thin as it is. I mean, it's great that the Phantom crawled into my basement window and all, and I've had dreams about that. But then you turned out to be you, and not Gerry, and I've had nightmares about _that_. You see what I mean?"

He did, unfortunately.

"I apologize," he said stiffly. Lonny nearly fell backwards off her chair, but caught at the edge of the desk just in time and pulled herself back up again.

"Don't _do_ that!" she cried. "That's not what I was asking for. I don't mind, you know? I mean, I _did_. But not now. Now that—"

Now that what? Erik wasn't sure he wanted to know. But the girl didn't look like she was lying; her eyes were wide, strange and trusting. Strange, because of the trusting. The last time anyone had looked at him like that, she'd believed him to be an angel. Erik swallowed past the lump in his throat with difficulty.

"Maybe it's all ideal," he said. "As long as it's real, too."

Lonny stopped looking at him and instead fixed her eyes on the wall behind his left ear.

"Look," she said, "this is crazy, and probably stupid, because it was my idea, and most of my ideas are both crazy and stupid. It's a gift. And a curse. Mostly a curse. So. So just don't hate me, if it doesn't work."

"I will not hate you," said Erik heavily. "Unless you keep procrastinating endlessly and do not try at all."

"I already wrote it, actually," Lonny told the wall, confidentially. "I wrote that she was upstairs, because I left the front door open, and she followed a star. Which is, like, weird, because it's not completely dark yet. Maybe there were two stars. Maybe she thought it was you."

_Maybe_ was bogus. _Exactly_ was closer to the truth.

Erik had gone very still, like cats when they think they hear a can opener in the far distance and are trying to find out for sure. Behind the mask, his eyes glowed with a fire, origin unknown, and a color unnamed. Lonny swallowed. It was tough, and the muscles in her throat didn't want to unclench afterwards, but she made it through the experience, and felt a little better for it. She blinked, even, though it was involuntary and more or less against her will, and when she opened her eyes, she was alone.


End file.
